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V 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 








THE TRAIL 
TO APACAZ 

By EUGENE CUNNINGHAM 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
1924 











Copyright, 1924 

By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Ino. 






i 

SEP -4 1924 


PRINTED IN U. S. A. 


VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC. 

BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK 



©C1A800G8I 




y 




TO MY MOTHER 

“A Lady qf the Old South ’’ 



# 







CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I Wanted—a Gunman.1 

II At the Mountain Inn.21 

III Apacaz.33 

IV Seething Politics.48 

V Jobs for Two.68 

VI Confidences.84 

VII Eavesdropping—and a Necktie ... 99 

VIII A Fair Exchange.114 

IX “Come to Carlotta of the Stars” . . 136 

X Centipedes Have a Thousand Legs . . 150 

XI Beside the Trail.157 

XII “Heart of Mine!”.169 

XIII Efficient Manhandling.185 

XIV In Which a Call is Paid ..... 196 

XV Maria of the “Tobobas”.209 

XVI Through the Smoke.225 

XVII Gaylord—Strategist.239 

XVIII Pageant Day.. 257 

XIX “Man Proposes, But-” .... 272 

vii 


















































I 






THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


Chapter I 

WANTED—A GUNMAN 

T HE shush-shush of the wide, boulder- 
studded stream was almost the only sound 
in that sector of jungle; silence, that was 
pregnant somehow with sinister potentialities, 
was like a palpable fog over the wilderness; a 
hush so deep that a dropping leaf threatened to 
set echoes reverberating. In the shallows by the 
southern—the Tierra Rican—bank a snowy heron 
stood solemnly a-fishing; a monkey-mother cud¬ 
dled a pinky little one in a low tree at the water’s 
edge. 

Then the leafy wall along the Tierra Rican 
shore was agitated in a certain spot, the move¬ 
ment so soundless that neither heron nor monkey 
heard. A wise, alert white mule-face emerged 
from the greenery, then the accompanying body 
seemed to pour noiselessly after the head. Trim 
hoofs slid down the bank, entered the water, still 
1 


2 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


without sound. Delicately Paloma, the magnifi- 
* 

cent white mula, tested each foot of the stream- 
floor, as a blind man probes his way. She gained 
midstream, passed it with the current curling on 
her breast, and reached the northern bank. 

Her rider lay like an Indian along her side, 
sheltered so from any eyes downstream. The 
hand hooked around saddlehorn held a long- 
barrelled, ivory-handled “Frontier” Colt; the 
left hand, curving beneath the thick neck, was 
similarly armed. 

Paloma halted momentarily before the steeper 
bank that was the southern border of the Eepublic 
of Flores. She reared daintily, then dropped 
her forehoofs upon it, and with a surge of great 
haunch-muscles was up—and the only sound was 
the softest of thuds, a ghostly rustling as she 
entered the jungle. 

Stephen La whom —“El Diablo” the Central 
Americans named him—straightened in the big 
Texan swell-fork and reholstered his revolvers. 
Turning toward the shore he had just quitted so 
cautiously, he whistled twice, a shrill, peculiar 
call. 

Instantly, on the Tierra Rican bank, silence 
became pandemonium. Horses crashed to and 


WANTED—A GUNMAN 


3 


fro in the undergrowth; furious voices shrilled 
many-jointed Spanish execrations, as a score of 
outwitted Tierra Eican lancers testified stri¬ 
dently that once more had the diablo Americano 
slipped through their fingers. Eifles exploded; 
the jungle-wall on the Flores bank was riddled by 
unaimed bullets. 

The soldier of fortune produced a black native 
cigarette and lit it as he listened. The war-flame 
was vanished from the green-grey eyes; his stub- 
bled, high-nosed face was merely contented now; 
the wide, firm-lipped mouth curved upward of 
corner. He waited, blowing smoke-rings upward 
into the still air. In a little time the uproar was 
succeeded by sullen quiet; the lancers dared not 
invade the foreign soil of Flores, even to lay 
hands on this their quarry. Then Steve Law- 
horn rose stiff-legged in his stirrups and doffing 
the bullet-pierced grey Stetson, inclined his cop¬ 
pery head in courtly, ironical salute. 

“Adios, amigos mios!” he called clearly. 
“Perhaps I shall come again, some day, to play 
with you the game of war. But for this time— 
adios!” 

Without waiting for further demonstration 
from his pursuers, who had followed grimly dur- 


4 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


ing two days, then slipped ahead to set this am¬ 
bush he had detected and avoided, Steve spurred 
Paloma forward, his big shoulders shaking as he 
rode. But presently his lean face turned grave 
as he remembered^ the stricken field, two days ’ 
ride behind him, where lay Don Federico Pelaya, 
would-be ruler of Tierra Rica, staring upward 
with sightless eyes. 

For four months Pelaya and Steve, his chief of 
staff, had pitted meagre forces against the Fed- 
erals of President Sellama. Then Sellama’s 
swarming troops had overwhelmed the revolu¬ 
tionary camp; all was over. 

So the Rio Lagarta marked another frontier 
crossed in Steve Lawhorn’s life. He had passed 
a good many such—boundaries of one adventure 
or another—in his six years of enforced wander¬ 
ing south of the Texan border. At first their 
passing had affected him. When, as a dare-devil 
centaur of twenty-one, he had snapped contemp¬ 
tuous fingers in the very whiskers of Death, he 
had usually looked back. Not so often did he do 
that now. 

Paloma broke through the tangled undergrowth, 
and in the trail struck into the effortless single¬ 
foot gait that barely swayed Steve in the saddle, 


WANTED—A GUNMAN 


5 


yet unwound the miles behind her like ribbon 
from a spool. Steve grinned down at her. 
There had been' a time when, like most born 
Texans, he would have scorned a mule as saddle- 
animal. With the recollection his mind harked 
back to other days, other scenes. 

He remembered boyhood happenings on the 
Circle Diamond; the Morgan-strain horses which 
had been his father’s pride, although the first 
stallion and mares had been brought from the 
Tennessee plantation of Steve’s mother’s people, 
because the scrubby saddle-stock of the Texan 
range offended her horsewoman’s eye. Steve’s 
lips curved tenderly as his mother’s picture, a 
dainty miniature, rose before his inner eye— 
slim, graceful, lovely; a lady of the Old South; 
a Tennessee MacCullough, daughter of that 
distinguished Confederate brigadier and post- 
bellum governor of his State, Rob Roy MacCul¬ 
lough, whose name was even yet a magic word in 
his own country. 

How she had changed the big Texan who had 
brought her West, worshipping her as one of the 
lesser gods! The broad ranch-acres had become 
a showplace under her refining direction; the 
rambling stone ranch-house had become a home. 


6 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


If she had lived- Steve stared unseeingly at 

the green trail-walls ahead, remembering all too 
vividly that black day when he was nine, when all 
the light seemed to go out of the world with the 
quiet procession that halted beneath the live-oaks 
on a knoll overlooking the house. 

It had been her dying command that Steve 
should go to college. So in the boy’s seventeenth 
year his father—changed with his wife’s death 
from “Big Jay,” to “Silent Jay” Lawhom— 
had shipped him east to Culver as emotionlessly 
as if Steve had been a blazed-face steer ready for 
the stockyards. 

Flashes from four years of brain and body¬ 
building at the big military academy came back to 
Steve as he rode swiftly upward through dense 
jungle. He wondered curiously if any of his 
classmates had known such grim experiences as 
those which had transformed him so abruptly 
from youth to man. 

For graduation-day had marked the end of 
normal existence for him. The mental pictures 
unrolled before his inner eye like scenes watched 
from a moving train. He could see himself read¬ 
ing the telegram thrust into his hands but a mo¬ 
ment after he had received his diploma; reading 


WANTED—A GUNMAN 


7 


with blurring eyes of his father’s murder by un¬ 
known assassins. He had rushed toward Texas, 
dazed, heartsick. 

Morg Connor, son of Jay Lawhorn’s old fore¬ 
man—then holding his father’s lifelong post as 
foreman of the Circle Diamond —had met Steve 
at the little sun-bleached station of Saylor City, 
to give him the meagre details. Steve remem¬ 
bered how he had belted on his father’s Colts— 
found fouled and empty, gripped in the big, dead 
hands—and with the faithful Morg had ridden 
day after weary day in fruitless search of the clue 
that would lead him surely to the smiling, soft- 
voiced Mexican, Guerra, his father’s bitter enemy, 
owner of the adjoining ranch and political boss 
of Saylor County. 

Still the pictures came—the adobe saloon and 
store in Saylor City; the three sneering men be¬ 
fore the rough bar; the slurring remark about his 
dead father as Steve stood buying cartridges; 
his turn upon them; the bullets from behind that 
grazed his shoulder; his own guns flipping from 
the holsters; the lightning bullet that killed 
“Three Finger Jack” Taylor in the doorway. 

Now, as Paloma’s tireless hoofs bore him 
steadily to northward, through tangled depths of 


8 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


brown-green scrub-jungle, overtopped by emerald 
matapalas and feathery coco-palms, broodingly 
Steve reconstructed the past, as be had done 
times without number while riding Wanderers' 
Trail. 

He could hear Ben Allison's earnest advice; 
could see the old ranchman's grizzled face, its 
gravity no whit lessened by tobacco-swollen 
cheek. 

“Yeh gotta skip for Mexico, Stevie! No other 
way out. Guerra, he's got Saylor County in his 
vest-pocket—dam' his black soul to everlastin' 
hell! Us white men, we can't move—yit! 
They're a-callin' it murder, 'cause your bullet 
took Taylor in the back as he whirled to hike. 
They'll stretch yeh, sure's hell's hot, if yeh stick 
here. Git an' stay got! I'm tellin' yeh as your 
dad's best friend. Guerra's offerin' a thousand 
for yeh, dead or alive." 

Thus roughly had he been picked up, like a 
troublesome puppy; hurled from the life he knew; 
sentenced to wander interminably with a price on 
his head. Small wonder that he was grim-faced 
before his time. Life had held for him no' such 
marvellous value that he shrank from risking it. 
So, with the lanky, ever-cheerful Morg Connor at 


WANTED—A GUNMAN 


9 


his shoulder, he had been machine-gunner in a 
Mexican “revolutionary army,” then, drifting 
farther south, alternately ranch-hand and placer- 
miner, plantation-boss and soldier of fortune. 

No man may follow this last trade and be 
blamed only for his own misdeeds. So gradually 
Stephen Lawhorn’s name had come to spell reck¬ 
less gunplay, amazing dare-devilry, from end to 
end of the Six Eepublics. “El Diablo” the na¬ 
tives named him, sometimes crossing themselves 
with the title; Americans and Europeans of the 
better class avoided him as a pariah; he was 
pointed out on the streets of towns to wide-eyed 
tourists; illustrated supplements of American 
newspapers carried lurid accounts of his adven¬ 
turing accompanied by supposed likenesses 
sketched from imagination. 

In a naturally sensitive man this searing 
notoriety works corresponding hardening, forms 
a protective callosity of bravado. Always find¬ 
ing ostracism, by bitter experience Steve learned 
to keep to himself. He went his way defiantly, 
flaunting the reputation gossip gave him in the 
faces of any who might look. 

From this moody introspection Steve roused 
himself to relight his cigarette and study the 


10 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


land’s lay ahead. As far as eye might reach to 
northward, above the jungle-top the horizon was 
walled in by the tumbled peaks of the Cordilleras, 
blue-grey with distance, shrouded with lacy 
mist. The trail grew wider; from the jungle ox¬ 
cart ruts turned into it; the hoofs of many horses 
and mules had pounded the black dirt iron-hard. 
The trees were thinning. By all the signs a 
frontier-town should be near. From accounts 
of other wanderers Steve drew data on this re¬ 
gion; La Cruz the town must be. 

At last he rode out upon a chalky plain. 
Barely half a mile to northward a huddle of rude 
sapling- and adobe-walled huts sprawled like scat¬ 
tered children’s blocks helter-skelter upon the 
dreary prairie. At the village-border he was 
greeted by the mustered curs of the place, which 
ringed him around with frantic yapping. At the 
store—the largest building of the place—a slat¬ 
ternly woman agreed to give him noonday break¬ 
fast, and when he had unsaddled Paloma and 
brought her maize-ears the woman set food upon 
a table and stood near to watch him eat. 

“You have come a—long way, senor?” she 
inquired, between puffs at her cigarro. “From 


WANTED—A GUNMAN ' 11 

Tierra Rica, perhaps? The revolution there, how 
goes it now?” 

“I have heard,” replied Steve blandly, sipping 
his coffee, “that it is over. But so many lies are 
told-” He broke off with a shrug. 

She nodded impassively, then the sharp black 
eyes found his Stetson, hanging from a peg above 
his head. 

“Your sombrero,” she remarked thoughtfully, 
“it is—torn!” 

Steve shot a keen glance at her, but the brown 
face was unreadable. 

“When a shod mula tramples a hat,” sighed 
Steve, “one must buy a new one. No?” 

She sniffed contemptuously at the insinuation, 
then paddled toward the kitchen. Steve con¬ 
tinued to eat, keeping watch alternately upon 
kitchen and street door. As he finished his coffee 
a man in faded khaki and leather puttees halted 
on the veranda outside to stare long at Paloma, 
even longer at the dangling, swell-forked saddle. 
He turned to peer inside the store, but a broad 
straw hat sheltered his upper face, so that Steve 
got only a vague impression of narrowed eyes 
that shone curiously pale in contrast to the ma- 


12 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


hogany-liued skin, of a ropy black moustache 
that matched the ragged hair straggling from be¬ 
neath the hat. 

Then the man stepped inside, and stood re¬ 
garding Steve curiously as the latter made his 
cigarette. After a perceptible pause the stranger 
came over. Steve observed that he was some¬ 
what under middle height, and paunchy, as if he 
exercised but little. 

“My name’s Jones—Simon Jones,” the new¬ 
comer volunteered. “Where you from?” 

Steve nodded, but made no reply. He had 
never outgrown the born Texan’s dislike for per¬ 
sonal questions from strangers. Jones pulled 
out a stool and sat down opposite Steve. 

“Guess you don’t care to advertise,” he 
grinned knowingly. “They come dam’ near get- 
tin’ you, what?” 

Steve merely eyed him steadily. There was 
silence for a space. 

“Well, she’s all over in Tierra Rica, Lawhorn!” 
said Jones suddenly. “Now, now, don’t get ex¬ 
cited! I know all about it. You’re too well 
known to pass for anybody else. I know the 
Federals mopped up Pelaya’s outfit. I know they 
didn’t get you because you was out scoutin’ when 


WANTED—A GUNMAN 


13 


they attacked. In fact”—the pale eyes rested 
steadily upon the blank face opposite—“ there 
ain’t—much—about—you—I— don’t —know! ’ 9 

Steve’s expression betokened entire indifference 
to the little man’s knowledge of his affairs. But 
while his left hand still held the cigarette move- 
lessly, his right had gripped a gun-butt under the 
table. The Colt rested upon his lap. 

He was faintly puzzled. That Jones should 
know of his late activities in Tierra Rica—in other 
parts of the tropics—was not surprising. The 
career of Stephen Lawhorn, most famous soldier 
of fortune Central America had known for gene¬ 
rations, was widely published. But the fellow’s 
purpose was not clear. 

“Well, what d’you figure to do here in Flores? 
Ruy Gomez, the Dictator, ain’t a bit fond o’ 
wanderin ’ revolutionists. ’ ’ 

“Why, I’m a cowpunch’; top-hand at 
ranchin’,” returned Steve, dropping into the 
cowland-drawl that was at once his birthright and 
lingua de guerre . “Driftin’ nawth to hunt me a 
job.” 

“Just a wanderin’ cowpunch’, huh?” sneered 
Jones. “I guess! I lnear that the gov’ment o’ 
Tierra Rica’s all-fired anxious to lay hands on a 


14 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


cowpunch’ about your size. Cowpunch’ he may 
be, but they call him brains o’ Pelaya’s revolu¬ 
tion. Yeh; they’re anxious to get him. Almost 
as anxious”—now he eyed Steve narrowly, 
tensely, hesitating perceptibly—“as the State o’ 
Texas is to hang him for murder!” 

Steve’s leaping emotions were betrayed by no 
slightest change of expression; no muscle of his 
well-trained body twitched. But to his dying day 
Simon Jones never knew how closely he had 
brushed death. The big Colt-hammer was be¬ 
neath Steve’s thumb; only swift exercise of will 
kept it from flipping back. It was the first time 
that anyone had referred in Steve’s hearing to 
that old charge which had sent him across the 
Rio Grande into Mexico. With mention of that 
six-year-old indictment panic welled up in Steve; 
he had to struggle against the impulse to spring 
up and fly, as if the law’s bloodhounds were al¬ 
ready snarling at his heels. 

But he sat with drooping lids, moveless pose 
telling nothing of the battle within. Gradually 
came calmness. He must see how much Jones 
really knew. 

“Never occurred to yuh, I reckon, that yuh 
might be bulldoggin’ the wrong steer?” 


WANTED—A GUNMAN 


15 


“Now, what’s the use of bluffing” scoffed the 
other. “I know, I tell you! No use your tryin’ 
to kid me; I know, too, that you’re wonderin’ 
right now whether to plug me with that baby- 
cannon you’re pointin’ under the table. If you 
do, we go out together. I’m pullin’ the same 
frame, only mine’s a .45 automatic.” 

Steve revised his opinion of Jones. Evidently 
the little man was more efficient than he ap¬ 
peared. Vainly Steve tried to read the expres¬ 
sion in the little blue eyes. 

“Well!” he challenged metallically. “What’s 
your game?” 

“See what you’re up against, huh? On one 
side, a little pressure on Ruy Gomez an’ back you 
go to Tierra Rica an’ the firin’ squad. On the 
other hand, if ’twas known that you’re in Flores, 
there’d be Texas extradition papers out in jig¬ 
time. Now, I’m willin’ to show you the gap in 
the fence. 

“You got the name o’ bein’ chain-lightnin’ on 
the draw, a square-shooter with the guy that pays 
you. Also, they say you can keep quiet in more 
languages than any bird in C. A. So there’s 
maybe a job for you in Flores, workin’ for—well, 
call ’em ‘certain powerful interests.’ With this 


16 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


job you’ll be protected from the firin’ squad in 
Tierra Rica an’ the rope in Texas. Also you’ll 
be well paid. See?” 

* 1 What’s the job?” 

“Never mind! She’s absolutely in your line. 
We might say, generally, that you’d stand by to 
do what you was told—then do it up right!” 

The man’s uncanny knowledge of him had 
shaken Steve badly, especially that reference to 
the old murder-indictment. Vision of his return 
to Saylor City, to be lynched by Guerra’s hench¬ 
men, at best to be railroaded to the penitentiary 
on perjured evidence, sent cold chills playing 
along his spine. The more recent matter of his 
revolutioning in Tierra Rica he dismissed; he 
could wriggle out of that as he had done in sev¬ 
eral like cases. 

“These interests yuh mentioned; it’s a gun¬ 
man they’re wantin’?” 

“Right! Best they can get. One who’ll do 
his work nice an’ smooth, then forget he done 
it. They say o’ you, Lawhom, that you never 
break your word. That’s why I’m makin’ you 
the offer.” 

Steve ignored the compliment. He was won¬ 
dering just what this mysterious employment 


WANTED—A GUNMAN 


17 


might be. Some private vendetta, where his 
guns would turn the tide? He had never gone 
blindly into any service, binding himself to sup¬ 
port a cause he might not approve, but in this 
instance there seemed little choice left him. 

“You’re headin’ for Apacaz? For the capi¬ 
tal?” Jones’ voice broke in upon his meditations. 
“Then you needn’t give me your answer now. 
Not but what the safest thing you can do is to 
agree,” he added sinisterly. “But when you 
get to Apacaz you’ll be—communicated with. 
After you’ve passed your word ever’thing’ll be 
mapped out for you. Now, since you’re leavin’ 
right away”—significantly—“I’ll tell you about 
the trails. 

“The upper road’s shortest—in an airline— 
but it’s so shot to pieces now that it takes longer 
to cover than the lower trail. So head out the 
way you come in. Half-mile west o’ town you’ll 
find a big matapala tree with a blaze. Turn 
north on the path by the matapala an’ you’ll 
come into the lower road. It’ll take you about 
two days to make San Pedro—Flores’ Caribbean 
seaport—an’ another day from the coast up to 
Apacaz. See?” 

Steve nodded. He reholstered the Colt he had 


18 THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 

held in his lap and got up. elones rose also, and 
patted Steve’s shoulder in the patronizing fash¬ 
ion of one who holds firmly the whip-hand. 

“Aw, don’t look so down in the mouth!” he 
grinned. “You can’t help it that you bumped 
into a foxy guy that’s got your number. As it 
happens, you fit into my scheme, so, when I heard 
they had you on the run in Tierra Rica, I just 
waited here in La Cruz and gathered you in. 
I’ll be waitin’ for your ‘yes,’ too. Don’t forget 
it!” 

Steve saddled Paloma, then went inside to buy 
tobacco and cooked food. When he came outside 
Jones was gone, so Steve stuffed his purchases 
into the big saddlebags, swung into the saddle, 
and rode grimly out of La Cruz. But as he 
passed the last miserable hut of the village he 
turned suddenly and saw Jones dodging behind 
a house. 

At the blazed matapala Steve turned Paloma 
into a narrow trail through thorny scrub. He 
jogged on, speculating about Jones and the man’s 
employers. Then a cheerful native on a tiger- 
striped mula pulled up sharply and smiled at 
Steve. He was of the middle class, in clean 
khakis and snowy Panama hat. 


WANTED—A GUNMAN 


19 


“Hallo, senor!” lie cried in broken English. 
“You are for San Pedro, what?” 

“Yes, then to Apacaz,” Steve replied. 

“But, senor! For Apacaz, why are you go over 
thees road of ten thousand, thousand devil? 
Thees camino she ees—how you say?—ver’ dam’ 
bad like hell! Si! Mooch dust; holes ver’ many. 
Ver’ better you go thees way, senor.” The man 
indicated a narrow path behind his little mula. 
“In two miles you are come to El Camino 
Alto —the upper road. Ver’ smooth; ver’ 
good . 9 9 

The man’s expression held only the friendly 
desire to set a stranger aright, but Jones had 
said that the upper trail was impassable. Steve 
wondered if he had accidentally found the joker; 
was Jones desirous of delaying his arrival in 
Apacaz? 

“Sure this is the bad trail?” But Steve was 
already certain that Jones had lied. 

“Of a certainment, senor! I myself have but 
come from San Pedro. Four days of bad, bad 
ride. * 9 

“Thanks!” said Steve. “I’ll turn oft here. 
By the way, if, when you reach La Cruz, anyone 
should ask if you met me on the lower trail, will 


20 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


you say that you did, forgetting to mention that 
I turned off here?” 

The native winked, smiling broadly. 

“Ah-h! I am comprehend ver’ good! I will 
say, ‘ Of a certainty I have see one ver’ beeg 
Americano riding la mula blanca. He ees go upon 
el camino for San Pedro when I meet heem!’ 
Ha! Juan Sanchez Ruiz, she ees fool them, 
senor. Have not the to-worry.” 

He waved and rode on, chuckling. Steve, smil¬ 
ing grimly at thought of Jones’ artifice miscarry¬ 
ing, turned into the narrow bridlepath and kept 
Paloma at a steady single-foot until the path 
joined the upper trail that led directly to Apacaz 
over the mountains. When darkness overtook 
him he turned aside to where a little stream was 
born of a rock-spring and made his camp for the 
night. 


Chapter II 

AT THE MOUNTAIN INN 


HIS trail was certainly named by a literal¬ 



minded man, Palomita! ,, grunted Steve, 


-A. as the white mula halted to breathe after 
an unusually steep ascent. “It’s the ‘upper 
trail* without argument.” 

All morning the road had borne them upward; 
they were well into the red-black hills now, among 
great pines and cedars thrusting skyward from 
the lava-strewn mountain-sides. 

As they idled upon this hilltop a stocky Indian 
packer trotted toward them, under a burden which 
would have staggered a husky white man in half 
a hundred yards. 

“ ’Dias, senor!” he grunted as he came along¬ 
side, then halted to eye curiously the big white 
man and his splendid mount. 

“From whence come you, amigo?” inquired 
Steve, in his accentless Spanish. 

“From Apacaz, senor.” He grinned. “In 
Flores we have a saying that ‘all trails lead to 


21 


22 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


Apacaz. ’ I am of the Hacienda Matagordo— 
the estate of General Menendez, the Minister of 
War. There were twelve of ns cargadores, but 
the others are far ahead of me, for I was last to 
leave the capital.” 

“The hacienda of General Menendez, it is very 
large?” It was Steve*s habit to collect varied 
information concerning the countries he traversed 
from inhabitants. 

“Si! surely it is the largest in all the world. 
Even the Hacienda Miramar of the good Colonel 
Villafarra is smaller.” 

Steve nodded. He was familiar with the Cen¬ 
tral American system of landholding by the 
aristocracy in vast tracts, and knew that Flores 
was no exception to the rule. It was specific 
information about the important personages of the 
republic that he desired; some tag-end of gossip 
that would furnish clue to conditions explain¬ 
ing Jones 7 offer. But he was careful. He knew 
well the blind loyalty of these simple folk to their 
overlords, the ease with which suspicion of an 
inquisitive stranger is born in their primitive 
minds. 

“Your master, the General—he is not too 


AT THE MOUNTAIN INN 23 

friendly with his neighbour? Or is that but the 
talk of lying tongues V 9 

“A lie of the blackest! My master rides often 
from the capital to Miramar. And Colonel Villa- 
farra uses Matagordo as if it were his own. 
Nay, senor! They are friends of the dearest. 
Why, only last week my master rode SAviftly from 
Apacaz to Miramar. Many great men were at 
Miramar that day, all friends of General Menen- 
dez. They talked long at table, with heads close 

together. Juan, a table-servant, told me-” 

Suddenly he broke off, shooting an uneasy 
glance at Steve. It was as if some subconscious 
warning had jogged his slow brain; instantly 
a mask of impenetrable stolidity curtained his 
dark features. 

“I—I must go, senor, else the foreman will be 
most angry at my slowness. ’Dios!” 

Steve watched the stocky figure over the next 
hilltop, then spurred Paloma on, wondering idly 
what bit of local gossip the packer had almost 
let slip. Some trivial incident, doubtless; to these 
simple folk of drab, uneventful lives the slightest 
movement of their betters has keen interest. 
Still, Steve wished the man had finished. 



24 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


His depression was fading. In the sparkling 
mountain-air, astride Paloma the Incomparable, 
with six-guns sagging at his hips and Winchester 
beneath his leg, he felt more than ordinarily 
capable of handling whatever situation might 
confront him. Texas, he reflected, was a long 
way off. If the law’s hounds should nose out his 
trail, there was good chance of winning to other 
sanctuary. It was the thought that he had a 
trouble he dared not face that irked him most. 

Just at noon Paloma halted before a squat 
adobe inn beside the trail. Steve dismounted 
and led Paloma to the rear, where he unsaddled 
and watched a mozo feed her, then went inside 
to the dusky front room. The sullen landlord 
promised breakfast within an hour, so Steve 
tilted a bench against the wall in a corner, and, 
with hat-brim low, prepared to doze. 

But horses halted outside at that moment. 
Steve heard the murmur of low voices; footsteps 
crossed the veranda and entered the adjoining 
room. Steve felt small curiosity concerning the 
newcomers, but when the landlord appeared si¬ 
lently in the rear door to stare at him, then turned 
away with the ghost of a satisfied smile, Steve 
sat up. 


AT THE MOUNTAIN INN 


25 


The room in which he sat occupied half the 
width of the T-shaped house, so that its front, 
rear, and one side wall were of adobe. The par¬ 
tition against which Steve leaned, which sepa¬ 
rated him from the room in which the strangers 
talked softly, was of rough cedar planking. 
Steve searched the wall for a knothole. None 
was visible, but after a moment he smiled and 
moved the bench so that it leaned against the 
partition where the planks joined the adobe front 
wall of the house. 

The mud bricks were so roughly laid that the 
edge of the partition failed by an inch to rest 
solidly against the adobe. While Steve could not 
see into the next room, he could hear plainly. 
As he listened Steve went suddenly rigid. The 
conversation was in English, and the man speak¬ 
ing was—Simon Jones! 

“Landlord says nobody’s here but a gringo 
miner, who’s asleep. Now I’ve done ever’thing 

you said an’ we’re sittin’ pretty. Still- 

How’s ever’thing in Apacaz now? I ain’t heard 
a thing since I left two weeks ago. Has-” 

‘ 1 Careful! ’ ’ came a deep-toned warning. 11 The 
very walls have ears”—Steve grinned at this— 
“and even in my own house I sometimes think 


26 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


I’m spied upon. Indeed, it would be very strange 
if Gomez’ agents were not watching me! But 
matters in Apacaz are almost as when you left. 

“Mays’ concession is to be passed at Congress 
next session. Gomez has ordered it so. Indeed, 
ordinarily it would be passed without a dissent¬ 
ing vote. Gomez holds Congress cowering like 
dogs beneath a whip-lash. But, since I take a 
hand, there is no danger of our plans so mis¬ 
carrying. The—danger will be removed before 
the Mays’ Bill comes to Congress. For Dios! 
I say that grant shall not pass!” 

After an instant’s silence the deep, level tones 
sounded slowly, as if but voicing reflections of 
the speaker. 

“Mays has worked marvels with the Dictator. 
Never have I seen Gomez the hard-headed so 
affected by any man. Why, he would make the 
American financial adviser of the republic, at 
fabulous salary, did Mays but consent. Gomez 
has favoured Mays above everyone in the matter 
of these oil-lands—has made concessions before 
Mays asked them.” 

“It’s settled, then, that Tri-Flag’s out o’ the 
runnin ’! ” 

“Yes. Gomez vows that Tri-Flag will get 


AT THE MOUNTAIN INN 


27 


nothing in Flores. He has found that Tri-Flag 
is reputed unscrupulous in its dealings. Mays, 
says Gomez, is quixotically honest. Well, per¬ 
haps. But 1 am against Mays!” 

“Snubbed you once, didn’t he?” Jones’ inflec¬ 
tion was guardedly malicious. 

“He was insolent! Choose your words more 
carefully! Between Mays and me can be no 
question of snubbing /” 

Steve’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. While 
his eavesdropping was bringing unexpected re¬ 
sults, the information only befogged him more. 
He analysed the situation flashingly. Jones was 
agent for someone needing a gunman for—un¬ 
less Jones’ manner deceived—desperate work. 
The man of the commanding voice evidently 
dominated Jones. Perhaps he was one of the 
mysterious “powerful interests.” A valuable 
oil-concession was to be granted one Mays, by 
the Dictator’s command. But the unidentified 
speaker had promised that he would prevent 
the Bill’s passage. 

Now Steve came to what was, to him, the crux 
of the whole matter. Was this opposition to the 
oil-concession the matter requiring a tight¬ 
mouthed killer—required “El Diablo ” La whom? 


28 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


Nothing he had overheard made this seem more 

than a possibility, but- Steve frowned. He 

found the whole affair most puzzling. 

“Saw little Morales at San Anselmo last week,” 
said Jones suddenly. “He was inspectin’ the 
garrison. You couldn’t help realizin’ that he’s 
Staff Colonel Morales, the Dictator’s stepson.” 
He chuckled sardonically. “What I wanted to 
say is, he’s straddlin’ his high, high horse again. 
Sore because you don’t take him into your plans 
more. He let me understand pretty plain that 
bein’ Gomez’ heir-apparent an’ also a wise guy, 
he’s no small spud.” 

“Jose Morales is a little peacock!” snapped 
the other. “His vanity—which is all of him— 
is very tender. But I can always manage him. 
A mouthful of glittering promises and Jose 
comes to heel again. A young fool, as Pedro 
Morales, his father, was an old fool before him. 
But Jose lacks his father’s iron steadiness and 
doglike faithfulness to Ruy Gomez. Mad over 
any pretty face. It was fortunate for little 
Jose that his mother’s beauty captivated the 
Dictator, that she married Gomez. 

“Now, in a few moments—when I have eaten— 


29 


AT THE MOUNTAIN INN 

I ride on to Apacaz. Do you attend to the two 
matters you know of, then report to me. I have 
another detail for you to arrange. It is a sheer 
stroke of genius, and very simple. I will tell you 
about it later. When you return we will also see 
to this man Lawhorn. Are you sure that your 
information concerning him is correct?” 

“Absolutely! There was a fellow in Flores last 
year from Lawhorn’s home-town, an’ I got plenty 
o’ dope on Lawhorn. He ’s still wanted for first- 
degree murder. Skipped from Texas into Mexico 
six years ago. Well, he’ll land in Apacaz about 
four days from now. I sent him the long way 
around so’s to beat him there. I-” 

Steve let his head droop suddenly to one side, 
faking a raucous snore. Wellnigh soundless foot¬ 
steps outside had caught his ear. The landlord 
came in and set dishes upon a table, then crossed 
the room and touched Steve’s shoulder. Steve 
straightened with a jerk, opening his eyes in a 
blank stare. 

“Breakfast,” grinned the innkeeper. 

While he demolished the meal of beefsteaks and 
black beans Steve heard the pair in the other room 
go out and ride away. He wanted very much to 


30 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


see Jones’ companion, but the landlord blocked the 
front door and stared steadily, so Steve simulated 
engrossment in the food. 

As he ate, he mulled over the conversation he 
had overheard. When his cigarette was lit he 
turned to the surly landlord. 

“How far to Apacaz?” 

“Four hours’ ride.” 

Steve nodded satisfaction. He had concluded 
that existence in Flores just then was too compli¬ 
cated to suit him, and he saw a simple way out. 
Jones, apparently, had not reflected that the sol¬ 
dier of fortune might take this course to escape 
the tentacles of Tierra Rica and Texas, as well as 
the blow to his pride involved in taking a job 
under threats. Steve grinned shadowily as he 
considered his plan. 

Take a job or be turned up f Not much! Morg 
Conner had remained in Guatemala four months 
before, when Steve had thrown in his fortune 
with Federico Pelaya. Morg was managing the 
Hacienda Tucucares, largest cattle-ranch in Gua¬ 
temala. Now, as Steve knew from first-hand 
investigation, it was barely a day’s ride from 
Tucucares to utter wilderness, over which Gua¬ 
temala held the barest letter of authority. There- 


AT THE MOUNTAIN INN 


31 


fore Stephen Lawhorn would ride on to Apacaz, 
as Jones expected, but only to ride out at dark 
and disappear in the mountains. If there was 
pursuit- 

Paloma’s level gait held more of speed than any¬ 
one but Steve and Morg Connor had ever gussed. 

But alarm might be given by the telegraph- 

So Steve snapped his fingers peremptorily, and 
the innkeeper, turning sullenly about, faced, not 
the gentle-voiced rider he had ventured to snub 
insolently a moment before but a hard-eyed repre¬ 
sentative of the explosive white race. He ac¬ 
knowledged the metamorphosis with respectful 
cringing. 

“The telegraph-line of Flores!” demanded 
Steve. “Is it the same as that of Tierra Rica and 
other Central American countries ?” 

“Si, senor! All the republics are connected by 
the Linea Telegrafico de Americo-Central. From 
Guatemala to Panama stretches the single un¬ 
broken wire that is the linea." 

“There is none other? All messages, where- 
ever sent, must go over that one wire?” 

“Si, senor!” 

Steve nodded. This tallied with all he had 
ever heard. Many times he had ridden beneath 


32 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


the single wire that is strung from pole or living 
tree in the jungle-depths. He knew how difficult 
the task of keeping it in operation; during the 
rainy season falling trees often parted the wire, 
and finding a break or ground on the linea was 
almost a matter of riding its length. So, if he, 
riding north from Apacaz, should snip the low- 

hung wire in a few places- 

So Steve smiled pleasantly upon the landlord, 
somewhat to that worthy’s bewilderment, and 
paid his score. He was whistling quite cheer¬ 
fully when he saddled Paloma and jogged out upon 
the widening white road toward the capital of 
Flores. 


Chapter III 
APACAZ 

T HE road to the capital, having reached the 
higher levels, had fewer panting climbs 
and descents than in the foothills. The 
chalky reaches were dotted with riders and foot- 
passengers, strings of burdened pack-mules 
and creaking ox-carts, all bound for Apacaz. 

Having practically settled his future actions, 
Steve dismissed from his mind the unpleasant jog 
his memory had received. He slouched comfort¬ 
ably in the big swell-fork and exchanged genial 
greetings with his fellow-travellers, while Paloma 
single-footed past terrace-like slopes chequered 
with squares of emerald sugar cane or red-berried 
coffee. Toward four o’clock the white mula 
plodded up a steep shoulder of the Cordilleras 
and stopped with an explosive sigh upon a flat 
mesa, from which all the slopes and valleys to 
the east seemed to slant downward and away. 
Steve stared across the jumbled landscape below 
to where, miles eastward, land ended in misty 

33 


34 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


greyness, and outward, far as eye might reach, 
stretched a shimmery argent shield. 

“Why, it’s the Caribbean Sea!” said Steve 
aloud, then whirled at a surprised gasp at his 
back. 

He stared, for sitting a tall bay mare on the 
hillside just above him was a slim girl of twenty 
or thereabout in smart tailored whipcords, a 
broad Panama upon her dusky hair, regarding 
him fixedly. Steve studied her swiftly from trim 
tan boot-toes to those splendid eyes that seemed 
violet in one instant, almost black the next. 
Then he doffed Stetson and bowed formally. 

“Pardon me! I didn’t mean to startle you 
but—we didn’t observe you until you—spoke.” 

“It doesn’t matter in the least,” the girl re¬ 
turned coolly. Then her indifference—assumed, 
perhaps, in instinctive revenge for having been 
startled—faded as unobtrusively, but narrowly, 
she took his measure, from stubbled, high-nosed 
face to high-heeled “punchers’ ” boots and heavy 
spurs. Far back in the violet eyes was born a 
tiny gleam of amusement; there was a hint of 
sophisticated superiority in her expression, much 
as if she had come upon a child playing Indian, 
as her eyes rested upon the crossed cartridge- 


APACAZ 


35 


belts about bis lean waist, the sinister white 
butts of the Colts in tied-down holsters. Then 
her gaze roved back to the grave, almost sombre, 
features, the steady, green-grey eyes with radii 
of tiny wrinkles at the outer corners, that met 
hers so unimpressed. 

“You’re rather an alarming figure to encoun¬ 
ter without warning,” she smiled. 

Instantly Steve was in his shell. In her tone 
was the same irritating shade of patronage Jones 
had exuded when telling Steve that he had met a 
wiser man. 

“I suppose a—feminine tenderfoot would find 
that so,” he replied. The drawl had vanished 
from his voice, with the slurred r’s which were 
heritage from his mother. The girl’s eyes 
widened a trifle, then, woman-like, she edged her 
tone to punish him for having again startled 
her. 

“You see,” she explained, “you’re the first 
American I’ve met in my three months in Flores 
who felt it necessary to go so—ah—heavily 
armed. ’ ’ 

“May I smoke?” he replied solemnly to this. 

He shook tobacco into a brown paper, and she 
watched with ostentatious interest until he had 


36 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


twirled the “makings” into a slim cylinder. 
Then she shook her head and sighed. 

“They always do it with one hand—in the 
movies!’’ 

“So I hear. Them movies must be a heap 
educational. ’’ 

Somehow she gained the impression that it was 
she who furnished material for a jest. It was 
not pleasant to be mocked by this long, unkempt 
man she had intended to make game of instead. 
So she tilted her chin and prepared to annihi¬ 
late him. 

“They are educational. Haven’t you noticed 
that it’s only in period-pictures, portraying the 
very early days of the West, that riders wear 
two guns?” 

But his eyes had been wandering mechanically 
over her mare. Now he swung down. 

“End of your latigo y s worked almost off,” he 
remarked tonelessly. “If you’ll get down for a 
moment-” 

She hesitated briefly, then obeyed. He caught 
her deftly and set her upon the ground, then un¬ 
saddled the mare swiftly. With a raw-hide thong 
taken from his saddlebags he made a new lacing 


APACAZ 37 

to secure the strap to the cinch-ring. Then he 
resaddled the animal. 

“Natives can't be trusted to saddle,” he told 
her gravely. “Better always look over the job 
yourself, otherwise you'll take an ugly tumble 
some day. 

“About the two guns; I reckon I'm 'way be¬ 
hind in styles; I haven't seen a movie in nearly 
six years.” 

“I beg your pardon!” she cried contritely. 
“I had no earthly right to laugh because your 
dress differs from that of the foreign colony in 
the capital.” 

“Why, that's all right,” smiled Steve. “I 
must look pretty ferocious just now. Besides, 
you'd hardly brush against a cowpunch' in 
working-rig.'' 

“I don't remember seeing many cowboys,” she 
agreed, “not even in the States. My knowledge 
of the West is limited to what I saw in two years 
at Mill College, in California; and Oakland and 
San Francisco, you know, are hardly cow-towns. 
You've been down here several years?” 

“Six.” It came to Steve that he had forgotten 
himself. As soon as this girl heard his name she 


38 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


would withdraw as if he carried pestilence. 
Moved by the stubborn pride that years of snubs 
had only intensified, he met her eyes squarely. 

“I came to Mexico from Texas then. Since 
that time I ’ve wandered up and down the banana 
republics. Ranch-work, placer-mining, and— 
revolutions.’’ 

“Oh, a revolutionist!” She regarded him 
with sharpened interest. 

“A soldier of fortune, rather. I am Stephen 
Lawhorn.” 

Her startled face told him that she had heard 
his name before. She took a quick step in retreat, 
while he watched with the beginning of a little 
cynical smile. Then she halted to stare openly, 
appraisingly. Slowly the clear eyes mirrored 
puzzlement ; then she smiled dashingly upon him. 

“I can’t believe all that I’ve heard of you!” 
she said abruptly. 

He could only stare, for she was not running 
true to form. 

“Oh, I’ve heard perfectly terrible things— 
things you—you did when you were with the 
bandit Zapata in Mexico.” 

“Whether you believe it or not, I have never 
seen Zapata, though our gang chased him for 


APACAZ 


39 


three days once. I was forced into service with 
Rojo Sanchez in Chihuahua, and was his machine- 
gunner for a year. That Zapata business was 
saddled upon me by liars. ‘Give a dog a bad 
name,’ you know.” 

“You don’t look at all terrible. But those 
stories-” 

“Yes, I know. I plead guilty to a good many 
actions not sanctioned by the etiquette books, but 
at the time of performance they seemed neces¬ 
sary, if not inevitable. I can offer no fuller de¬ 
fence. Just now I’m riding north. I crossed 
the border yesterday a jump ahead of Tierra 
Rican troopers. I was Chief of Staff of Federico 
Pelaya’s revolutionary army, and that revolu¬ 
tion is smashed.” 

“I see. And now?” 

“Now? A job, for choice. I’m sick of these 
petty squabbles. The Tierra Rican affair was 
my sixth.” 

“You don’t think of going back to your home— 
to Texas?” 

“Often!” he sighed, brought to realization, 
by this flick on the raw, of the impassable gulf 
that yawned between him and the “respectable” 
world. He stared out across the slopes, more of 


40 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


nostalgic longing in his eyes than he knew. 

“But- Oh, I guess I’ll be a wandering cow- 

punch ’ always. Do you know, you’re the first 
white girl to toss a decent word my way in years, 
Miss-” 

“I am Estelle Mays,” she said, and he stared 
so long that she flushed. “Perhaps you’ve heard 
of my father, Howard Mays?” 

Steve nodded absently. His thoughts had 
flashed back to the mountain inn: “Gomes has 
favoured Mays above everyone in the matter of 
these oil-lands.” And this girl, whom he began 
to like sincerely, was the oil-man’s daughter! 

“I’ve heard of him. He’s—getting an oil- 
concession, isn’t he? Or has it?” 

“He’s to get it as soon as Congress meets. 
President Gomez has promised that the Bill will 
be passed then. Three weeks; then that part will 
be finished.” She stared unseeingly across the 
vista at her feet. “It seems, sometimes, that 
we’ve been here always. It has been hard. So 
much politics at first; so many obstacles we 
hadn’t foreseen. Then my father and the Presi¬ 
dent became friends, and—the difficulties vanished 
magically. 

“It was rather a gamble, our trip here. It 


APACAZ 


41 


meant so much—wiping out the financial disasters 
of three bad years.” She broke off with an 
apologetic little laugh. 

“I’m thinking aloud. I won’t bore you with 
our troubles, particularly when we’re 4 out of 
the woods’ now—or will be when Congress 
meets.” 

Steve had been reading between the lines. He 
could appreciate this desperate gambling, stand¬ 
ing to win or lose all on one roll of the dice. 
And Mays had won. Or had he? Steve knew 
Ruy Gomez, Flores’ Dictator, by repute—a big 
man of unmixed Mayan blood, educated in the 
iron system of a German university. By sheer 
force of personality Gomez had made himself 
autocrat of the country. This, a herculean feat, 
was simplicity itself compared to maintaining for 
twenty years his hold upon governmental reins 
without experiencing a really serious attempt at 
his overthrow. 

Gomez was said to be both honest and able, 
giving his fierce, childlike people as fair adminis¬ 
tration as they could understand, without relax¬ 
ing for an instant his iron grasp. So, with 
Gomez on his side, Mays held an “edge” on his 
rivals. 


42 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“We should be moving on,” suggested Steve. 
“It’s nearly five.” 

He helped the girl into the saddle, then mounted 
Paloma. They jogged forward stirrup to stir¬ 
rup, Steve busied with his jumbled thoughts, 
Estelle Mays studying the shifting expressions 
upon the face of this unorthodox new acquaint¬ 
ance, the strange man himself, whose speech 
and manner contrasted so sharply with his 
reputation. 

“Will you stay long in Apacaz?” she asked 
finally. 

“I—don’t know,” he replied undecidedly. 
“I’m not sure—yet.” 

“I asked because I’d like you to meet my 
father. I’m sure,” she smiled, “that he’ll be 
glad to revise his opinion of you—as his daugh¬ 
ter has done.” 

“But don’t you see, Miss Mays,” he objected 
frowningly, “that you can’t revise the opinion 
of the rest of the world? If you ask me to your 
home, say, that may easily create friction, ham¬ 
per your father’s dealings with folk here. Why, 
even President Gomez would warn you Against 
any association with me.” 

She faced him, chin well up, level-eyed as a 


APACAZ 


43 


man, with one of the flashing transitions from 
litter femininity to the disconcerting sexlessness 
of a boy that he found both bewildering and— 
fascinating. 

“Mr. Lawhorn,” she told him stiffly, “my 
father and I reserve the right to form our own 
opinions, to associate with whom we please. I’m 
inviting you to call to-morrow morning, if you’re 
free.” 

A sudden warmth was born in Steve Law- 
horn’s heart. It was not enough, by far, to 
erase memory of ostracism by others of this 
girl’s—his own—class, but it went far toward 
melting the surface frozen by years of harsh 
treatment. He raised his Stetson with the grave 
dignity which—because of what it told of a her¬ 
itage of breeding—had surprised her earlier in 
the afternoon. 

“I am greatly honoured,” he said formally, 
then they kept silence for a time. 

“Apacaz!” announced the girl, half an hour 
later. The animals had topped a long slope and 
were now on the rim of a broad tableland set in a 
semicircle of towering peaks. A long mile before 
them, red-tiled roofs glowing like rubies in the 
late sunlight, sprawled the capital of Flores, with 


44 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


the volcano Hombre Viejo—“Old Man”—rearing 
above its neighbours like a grim watchman. 

“You’ve never been here? Then I’ll guide 
you. This road runs into the Avenida Nacional 
—Apacaz’ main street—upon which, near Central 
Plaza, are all the government buildings. At this 
end of the avenue, some ten squares from the 
Plaza, is the Hotel American, owned by an 
American named Dwyer. It’s said to be com¬ 
fortable, though not so popular with Americans 
and English as the Hotel Sultana.” 

“I’ve heard of the American. I’ll stop there, 
I think.” 

“We have our own house,” Estelle continued. 
“It’s No. 10, Calle Grande, near the Plaza. To¬ 
morrow morning, remember, you’re to call there.” 

“I’ll be there!” he assured her smilingly. 
“But who is this coming?” 

They were nearing the outskirts of town, 
and toward them galloped a slender young native 
in Prussian-blue uniform-tunic and flaming scar¬ 
let breeches. Upon his shoulders were massy 
golden epaulets; his breast blazed with an array 
of medals and badges worthy of a third-rate 
European princeling. Estelle, glancing covertly 
at her shabbly companion, caught a twinkle of 


APACAZ 


45 


quiet amusement in the shrewd green-grey eyes. 

“Why, that’s Staff Colonel Jose Morales. 
President Gomez’ stepson. I think ”—this with 
another side-glance at Steve—“that he comes to 
meet me.” 

With a jerk of the reins that sent the black 
Arab-Peruvian to its haunches, Morales slid to a 
stop, and with French cap at knee bowed to the 
stallion’s neck. 

“Ah, Meess ’Stelle!” he cried, straightening. 
“I have gallop’ to look for you. For why,” he 
said reproachfully, “have you not say that you 
ride to-day? I have look and look for you! 
Everywhere I have look! Ah, I shall for ever 
mourn the golden hours lost!” 

“I didn’t want company, Colonel Morales,” 
smiled the girl indulgently. “But let me intro¬ 
duce an—an American, cattleman, Mr. Lawhorn. ’ ’ 

At pronouncement of that name Morales’ 
black eyes bulged. He swallowed audibly, with 
effort, then drew himself rigidly erect. 

“I have heard of the Senor Lawhorn! But not 
as the— cattleman! Senor, as Staff Colonel of the 
Army of Flores I have it to say that your presence 
is unwelcome. Flores loves not the soldiers of 
fortune. ’ ’ 


46 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


Steve eyed the pompous little figure almost 
absently. He was recalling the mention of 
Morales overheard at the mountain inn. Estelle 
darted an uneasy glance at the tall American. 

“At least, Colonel Morales,” she said brightly, 
to cover the awkwardness of the moment, “don’t 
mix your official and social sides when with me. 
Now that you’re here you may escort me home— 
from the Hotel American. Mr. Lawhorn will 
share the duty that far.” 

With Morales’ prancing stallion at one stir¬ 
rup and Paloma single-footing placidly on the 
other side, Estelle kept conversation running in 
safe, general channels, dividing her attention as 
equally as possible between the men. Morales 
ignored Steve conspicuously until the little caval¬ 
cade had passed the outskirts of the capital, then 
pointed to the sign upon a two-story building on 
the left. 

“There, Senor cattleman,” he volunteered 
stiffly, “is the hotel for yourself. I have the 
pleasure to wish you adios and to say again that 
my stepfather, the President, has no liking for the 
soldiers of fortune.” 

“Good afternoon, and not good-bye, is what I 
give you, Mr. Lawhorn,” smiled Estelle, and 


APACAZ 47 

Steve bowed over her extended hand. “Don’t 
forget yonr call to-morrow.” 

“Good afternoon,’’ returned Steve, Stetson at 
knee. “I’ll surely be there.” 

He replaced his hat and watched the pair canter 
off, then turned Paloma toward the gate in the 
white-washed wall opening upon the American’s 
stable-yard. Steve swung to the ground, to 
glance about him somewhat absently, for his mind 
was busied with other things. A mozo padded 
up to tend Paloma. 

“ ‘ ... A young peacock!’ ” mused Steve 
“ ‘His vanity—which is all of him—is very ten¬ 
der. . . . Mad over any pretty face.’ Well!” 
admitted Steve aloud, “Certainly the ‘pretty face’ 
is beside him now! What’s that? Si, hombre! 
Water and maize for the mula, then a stall. I 
stay the night.” 


Chapter IV 

SEETHING POLITICS 


S i senor, an Americano, tall as yourself, but 
of much more thinness, with a great black 
sombrero. ’ 9 

Steve stared smilingly at the great blackboard 
in the American’s office, upon which, in accord¬ 
ance with police regulation, was chalked the 
name of each guest opposite the number of the 
room occupied. Arturo, the little native clerk, 
was explaining the identity of the occupant of 
No. 15, whose name, as scrawled, was unintelli¬ 
gible to any gringo. 

“The Americano , he is in the bar-room even 
now,” volunteered Arturo. 

Steve moved to the door leading from office to 
bar-room. A lanky, booted man stood with el¬ 
bows spread upon the long bar, a black Stetson 
pushed far back upon his drooping head. Steve’s 
face softened at the sight, and gravity vanished 
instantly. With all the air of a small boy mis¬ 
chief-bent, he crossed the room noiselessly and 

48 


SEETHING POLITICS 49 

banged a hard hand between the hunched 
shoulders. 

“You dam’ idiot!” sputtered Morg Connor, 
whirling about. “Why’n’t you hit me with a 
chair or table? You never did have the judg¬ 
ment of a locoed bronk, Steve!” 

“Serves you right for camping in the bar¬ 
room,” retorted Steve serenely. “Why are you 
trailing ’way down here in Flores? Why aren’t 
you hard at work in Guatemala? Explain your¬ 
self, white man! Explain yourself! ’ ’ 

“No law against my quittin’, is there? You 
see, Steve,” he grinned affectionately, “I had a 
hunch that you’d be in some sort o’ devilry if I 
wasn’t ridin’ herd on you, so I come for a look— 
see. All over in Tierra Rica, huh?” 

“Don’t be dodging! Why’d you quit Tucu- 
cares?” 

“Oh, old man Madrono died last month and left 
Tucucares to that useless kid o’ his. I couldn’t 
hitch with the boy, so I took my pay an’ drifted. 
Thought maybe I’d hit Tierra Rica before the last 
brick was throwed, but when I rode in this mornin’ 
I heard that Palaya was gone under, but that 
General Lawhorn had slipped out—as per usual. 


50 THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 

I waited here to-day, figurin' you might drift 
through. 

“Did you tell Arturo you're bunkin’ with me? 
C’m’on an’ I’ll steer you to some soap an’ water. 
You sure look like the frazzled end to a misspent 
life!” 

“Don’t get so personal,” objected Steve amia¬ 
bly, as they moved toward the door into the patio 
—the open central square around which the hotel 
was built. “I can still remember how they used 
to rope you off your horse, so your mother could 
expose the basic colouration of your neck. You 
used to carry a couple of homesteads in your 
ears.” 

They crossed the cool, tiled patio and climbed 
the stairs to an encircling gallery upon which all 
the upper rooms of the house opened, in the 
manner of two friendly puppies. 

Born at almost the same hour of the same day, 
in the big ranch-house of the Circle Diamond , it 
was natural that the boys should grow up some¬ 
what closer than brothers, as their fathers—Jay 
Lawhorn, the owner, and “Smoky Joe” Connor, 
his foreman-prime minister—had always been. 
Except for the four years when Steve had been 
at Culver, while Morg remained on the ranch to 


SEETHING POLITICS 


51 

step into his dead father’s shoes, seldom had they 
been separated for so much as a week. 

As naturally as he had backed Steve’s feud 
with Ramon Guerra, Morg had accompanied Steve 
into exile. The bond between them was so in¬ 
stinctive that neither of them gave it conscious 
consideration. Their very thoughts ran in terms 
of “we.” 

Morg threw open the door of No. 15, a broad 
room containing two canvas cots, with a wide, 
barred French window overlooking the Ave- 
nida Nacional. He sprawled comfortably upon 
a cot to watch Steve unpack the big leather 
alforjas. 

From one saddlebag Steve drew a package 
wrapped carefully in brown paper, which, when 
opened, disgorged folded clothing made by the 
best tailor in San Jose de Costa Rica. Tenderly 
he laid out the garments upon his cot. 

“A new suit!” gasped Morg, rolling his eyes 
dramatically. “New boots, too; silk shirts an’ 
ties an’ white collars! Steve, Steve! I always 
said college’d be your ruination. I can see civi¬ 
lization a-breakin’ out on you in big spots, like 
measles. What price the brand-new Stetson an’ 
the li’l tie with spots? You’ll look like a soda 


52 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


jerk. Betcha Paloma bites you first time she sees 
you in that rig. Betcha!” 

Steve came out of the bathroom damp-haired, 
smooth-chinned, scrubbed to a lustrous mahog¬ 
any of face and neck. Re-entering No. 15, he felt, 
if not at peace with all the world—for he remem¬ 
bered Simon Jones—at least untroubled by what 
might occur. With the happy-go-lucky Morg, 
whose carefree demeanour masked “a first-class 
fighting man,” at his shoulder, there would be 
small danger of unheralded blows from behind. 

From skin out he donned new clothing, revelling 
in the feel of smooth linen and silk. His trouser- 
legs he pulled carefully over polished bootlegs, 
token of a 1 ‘ civilized’ ’ point of view. As he 
finished knotting the blue polka-dotted four-in- 
hand which had aroused Morg’s derision a slight 
snickering sound came from the doorway. 

11 How about punishin ’ a meal ? ’’ inquired Morg. 
“You been tyin’ an’ untyin’ that cra-vat steady 
for twenty minutes. Mustn’t wear it out first 
day, y’ know.” 

They were served in the long, cool dining-room 
that opened an entire side upon the patio—the 
interminable courses of a formal Spanish dinner, 
from watery cabbage soup to most excellent cafe 


SEETHING POLITICS 


53 


negro. At last they sat luxuriously silent, with 
cigarettes between their fingers, to dawdle over 
the coffee-cups and watch the jewelled spray of 
the tiny fountain in the patio’s centre. 

“Where’s this chap Dwyer, who runs the cara¬ 
vansary?” asked Steve idly. 

“Search me. I ain’t laid eyes on him yet. 
Arturo says he’s a busy hombre —dabbles in 
ranches an’ coffee-plantations an’ other real 
estate. Not here half-time.” 

They finished their coffee and drifted to the bar¬ 
room. Dusk had come; in the long room the 
electrics had been switched on. At one end of the 
bar, busy with fountain pen and account book, 
lounged a plump man near middle height, in fresh 
tan linen, with expensive Panama cocked over one 
eye. He turned at sound of their footsteps, 
showing a pallid, clean-shaven face, with blue 
eyes round and hard and bright as marbles. 

“Evenin’, gents!” he grunted, speaking around 
the cigar clamped in the corner of his gash-mouth. 
“I’m Dwyer. Just got in from up north. 
What’ll it be?” 

They drank formally, Dwyer’s little eyes rov¬ 
ing constantly from Steve to Morg and back again, 
his heavy face expressionless. 


54 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“Strangers here?” Dwyer’s inflection was 
purely casual. 

“Why, just about.” Unostentatiously Steve 
trod upon Morg’s most convenient foot. 

“Nice town you got,” remarked Morg blandly. 

“Yeh, not bad. Little hot, sometimes, but not 
so very. Too high up. I seen it just as hot in 
—uh—uh—well, lots o’ places in the States.” 

“Oh, hotter; lots hotter!” declared Morg 
earnestly. “Why, I’ve seen days in—uh—uh— 
well, Arizona an’ New Mexico, lots hotter’n it ever 
gets down here. In—uh—uh—New York, too, 
she gets plumb torrid sometimes.” 

Steve devoted himself to study of his scarf- 
knot in the bar-mirror, while Dwyer looked Morg 
over thoughtfully. 

“From north or south, stranger? What coun¬ 
try you from?” 

“Oh, all around. Been pretty much all over. 
Just a-ramblin’—like the song, you know.” 
Morg grinned winningly at the hotel-keeper, who 
smiled faintly in return. 

“How’s business?” asked Steve, for conversa¬ 
tion seemed on the drag. 

“Well, fair,” Dwyer’s tone was cautious. 
“All in all, fair. If sugar’s low, then coffee 


SEETHING POLITICS 


55 


climbs a little, an’ bananas. I guess we can’t 
kick. Uh—you gents on business here? Figure 
on settlin ’ or somethin ’ ? ’ ’ 

“Well”—Steve’s face betokened thoughtful 
consideration—“maybe. Yeh, I reckon we’ll 
probably settle—or somethin’.” 

“What-for a town is she, anyway?” This was 
Morg. 

“Um—let’s see.” Dwyer rubbed a fat hand, 
pale as his jowls, across his chin. “Apacaz 
stacks up maybe thirty thousand. Principal in¬ 
dustry’s”—he grinned ponderously at his jest—• 
“gov’ment graft, an’ no outsider can glom on to 
that. Nice climate, an’ prices, generally, ain’t 
high.” 

“How about the female-people?” demanded 
Morg anxiously. “How do they stack up— 
against the senoritas farther south?” 

“Wouldn’t want to say,” shrugged Dwyer, 
“not havin’ seen the dames down south, But the 
society-skirts—the native ones—are do-ll-ba-hies! 
Get their uniforms from New York. You’d think, 
to give ’em the once-over, that they’d just French- 
heeled out o’ the St. Francis.” 

“Let’s go see for our li’l selves!” proposed 
Steve. 


56 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


As they moved up National Avenue toward 
Central Plaza Morg was impelled to wonder about 
their host. 

“Why, he’s surely suffering from ingrowing 
bartenders ’ curiosity, ’ ’ replied Steve. ‘ ‘ Further¬ 
more, and also, he’s conspicuously vague about 
his last place of residence.” 

“You should talk, the way you was walkin’ the 
rocks! You like to flattened my foot. But,” he 
grinned reminiscently , 1 i I reckon I give him plenty 
places to study over—Arizona an’ New Mexico; 
New York, too.” 

“His curiosity is quite natural, though,” re¬ 
flected Steve aloud. “These hairpins always 
wonder when a strange white man wanders in if 
the newcomer intends to settle and so reduce the 
pickings. I’ll bet you, though, that mighty little 
goes on in this man’s country that friend Dwyer 
isn’t on to! 

“Well, here’s the Plaza. Wonder if the ladies 
come up to Dwyer’s prospectus?” 

“Probably not, but you should worry. Strikes 
me you ’re showin ’ a lot o ’ interest in womenfolk 
all of a sudden. Thought I always did the lady- 
wranglin’ for two?” 


SEETHING POLITICS 57 

“Oh, I HI flower the wall, as usual. I was only 
thinking -” 

Down the gravelled walks of the Plaza 
strolled columns of young women in white, gig¬ 
gling, chattering, while from paths paralleling 
those used by the duenna’d girls the capitaPs 
young men ogled their ladies. For a time the 
partners watched amusedly from a bench com¬ 
manding a view of both sexes. But there was no 
sign of Estelle Mays, and, once sure of this, Steve 
lured Morg away with promise of a drink. They 
turned into the Calle Grande, and a few squares 
beyond the Plaza came to a little pulperia with 
tables set upon the tree-bordered sidewalk. 

As they clicked along the tiled walk Morg caught 
sight of a slim, elderly man in forest-green khaki 
at a small table set somewhat apart from other 
drinkers. Morg nudged Steve and nodded, then 
they hastened over. 

“Bill Faraday!” they chorused, and the man 
came to his feet, with outstretched hands, a warm 
smile widening his mouth beneath the drooping 
grey moustache. 

“Bless my soul! If ’tisn’t the * Texas Twins’! 
Si’ down, children! Name yo’ liquor. When did 



58 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


yo’-all get in? Bless my soul! It’s good to see 
yo ’-all again.’ ’ 

They sat smiling expansively. Bill Faraday, 
Kentuckian, gentleman-adventurer in more lands 
than even he could recall easily, was an old and 
trusted friend, their acquaintance with him dat¬ 
ing from their service with Rojo Sanchez in Mex¬ 
ico. They gave the information he had asked, 
in return demanding his own more recent history. 

“Why, I’m Artillery Commander here,” Fara¬ 
day explained, in the faint, precise drawl that 
never left him. “Boys, I’ve the sweetest collec¬ 
tion of scrapping hellcats yo’ ever laid envious 
eyes upon!” 

“How’s politics here?” inquired Steve. 

“Pretty quiet. Ruy Gomez keeps peace with 
clouts of the mailed fist. But he’s a reasonable 
man. Ye-es, it’s peaceful enough—not but what 
most of the aristocrats would welcome a change 
of ruler-” 

He broke off suddenly at pressure of Morg’s 
foot upon his. The lanky puncher got up lazily, 
looked about as if in search of something on the 
sidewalk. Steve and Faraday maintained easy 
postures without change of expression, though 
watching keenly. Morg edged gradually toward 


SEETHING POLITICS 


59 


the corner of the building; suddenly he made a 
dash and disappeared around it. He returned 
shortly, hearing a battered straw hat. 

“His laigs are long’s his ears,” he drawled 
ruefully. “Faded into an alley up-street. Peon , 
I reckon. Dropped his bonnet.” 

The sombrero told them little of the eaves¬ 
dropper’s identity. An ordinary straw, such as 
was sold in every market-place of Central Amer¬ 
ica, it was common headgear of the poorer classes. 
Steve watched silently while Morg and Faraday 
inspected the trophy. He was pondering a small 
problem. Like Morg, he had had a glimpse of a 
dark, sharp-featured face at the building-corner. 
More, he had identified the man as one who had 
lounged in the street-door of the American’s bar¬ 
room, listening interestedly while Dwyer talked to 
the partners. 

“Do they spy upon you , Bill?” frowned 
Steve. 

Faraday lifted a shoulder. 

“Probably. Everyone is spied upon here. I 
was about to sketch the situation when Morg 
observed our audience. Gomez is absolute auto¬ 
crat, but the aristocrats hate him intensely. Be¬ 
hind his back they sneer at him, because he is of 


60 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


unmixed Indian blood, while they call themselves 
‘ Castilians. ’ Castilians—hell! 

“So, they oppose the Dictator as far as they 
dare-” 

They listened while Faraday told of Gomez’ 
most prominent ill-wisher, Carlos Menendez, the 
Minister of War, son of a Floreno father, but 
whose mother had been a Russian ballet-dancer. 
Ostensibly a rich man, stock-speculations had al¬ 
most beggared Menendez; his vast estate of Ma- 
tagordo was mortgaged to bankers. Faraday 
called Menendez the most influential man in 
Flores—after Gomez—and logical successor to 
the Dictator. 

Gomez, by Faraday’s account, had not wanted 
Menendez as senior Cabinet member; had ap¬ 
pointed him only as concession to the aristocrats 
of Congress, with whom Gomez was perpetually 
embroiled over mineral-concessions. The Con¬ 
gressmen endeavoured to grant concessions to 
those interests promising the largest graft, while 
Gomez, according to the old soldier, welcomed 
foreign capital, but insisted that a fair share of 
profits enrich Flores’ treasury. Also, the Dic¬ 
tator carefully investigated each company before 
authorizing a grant. Since Flores’ constitution 



SEETHING POLITICS 


61 


did not permit passage of a Bill over the presi¬ 
dent’s veto the Congressmen were powerless to 
award concessions to interests disapproved by 
Gomez. 

Again Steve heard of Congress’ coming session, 
when Howard Mays was to be granted a great 
oil-concession, affecting millions of dollars. 

“You think, then, that Congress will pass the 
Bill?” inquired Steve thoughtfully. 

“Steve, m’son,” grunted Faraday, “when 
Gomez reaches for the whip those cowed lions of 
Congress perform! They snarl and growl, to be 
sure, but they obey! 

“I’ve clean neglected to mention Mays’ 
daughter. She’s belle of the capital. Now, don’t 
look interested, Morg! Yo’ may see her—at a 
proper distance—but she’s always squired by 
young Harrison, Vulcan Oil Company agent, or 
Jose Morales, the Dictator’s stepson. Harrison’s 
a nice boy, but Morales- He’s a ‘Staff Colo¬ 

nel,’ principally employed in displaying marvel¬ 
lous uniforms. But he’s just as dangerous as a 
peeved toboba-snake. He’d have one knifed or 
poisoned, or shot in the back, if one threatened to 
interfere with any of his plans.” 

They drained their glasses silently. Steve 


62 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


reflected that acceptance of the job Jones had 
offered would seem to mean placing himself 
against Gomez—and Mays. But if he should defy 
Jones—and Jones’ backers—would that ensure 
protection by Gomez? Steve believed not. He 
had nothing to serve as entering-wedge with the 
grim Dictator. Gomez would more probably 
yield to the “pressure” Jones had mentioned— 
either send Steve back to Tierra Rica or hold him 
for the Texan authorities. 

There seemed only one alternative to throwing 
in his lot with Jones’ people—instant departure 
for Guatemala; and Steve found himself strangely 
loth to quit Apaeaz. An idea came to him 
finally; he regarded it swiftly, then nodded to 
himself. 

“ That’s my best bet!” he decided. 

The friends left the pulperia, moving down- 
street. At the Plaza they halted. 

“I live at the Sultana,” Faraday informed 
them. “Yo’-all are at the American?” 

“Yeh,” replied Morg. “Say, Bill, who’s this 
bird Dwyer?” 

‘‘ Quien sabe? He’s been in Apaeaz about three 
years, I understand. Seems to have prospered; 
besides the hotel he is reported to own coffee and 


SEETHING POLITICS 63 

banana plantations all over the republic. A 
shrewd customer, I should say.” 

“Ever hear of a man named Simon Jones?” 
Steve’s tone was very casual. 

“Don’t seem to recall the name. Why?” 

“I ran into him down south. Just wondered if 
you knew him. No importance.” 

“I see. Now, how long will yo’-all be in 
Apacaz? Hope yo’ll stay a few days, anyway. 
It’s been good to talk with yo’-all again; I’ve been 
pretty lonely.” 

“Why, reckon we’ll pull out to-morrow,” 
said Morg. “Nicaragua, maybe Argentina—eh, 
Steve?” 

“No-o, not to-morrow, Bill. Maybe not for 
several days—eh, Morg?” 

Faraday’s eyes twinkled at sight of Morg’s 
bewilderment. He liked them well, the “Texas 
Twins”; their arguments were always worth 
hearing. 

“Difference of opinion in the family? Well, 
I’ll see yo’-all to-morrow.” 

“Now, what’s the idee?” complained Morg as 
the partners moved on. “Here 1 am, all set to 
shove out manana, an’ you change your mind with 
nary peep o’ warnin’.” 


64 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“Why, this is a nice town,” countered Steve. 
“Why rush me off to the jungle before Pm half- 
recuperated from my revoluting? Shame on you, 
Morg!” 

“What’s the idee?” persisted Morg. “You 
never said nothin’ up to now about wantin’ to 
stick here. We can get jobs with Charley Cuttle 
in Leon. Didn’t Charley say-” 

“He did! Said we could have jobs any time. 
So there’s no use of your straddling the traces 
like this. We’ll drift down to Charley’s, or wan¬ 
der Guatemala way, all right. Pretty soon, too— 
maybe. Why all the excitement? Say, hombre, 
are you broke?” 

“Well, I-” 

“Spare me the horrible details! I understand 
perfectly—now. You played poker somewhere 
coming south, and naughty men just gathered in 
your dinero. Morg, Morg! Not more than a 
million times have I told you you don’t know 
poker’s alphabet!” 

“Well, dammit! I never held a decent hand 
once. I-” 

“Yes, you’re broke. Well, let’s see. I’ve 
twelve dollars—American bills, too, Morg!—in my 
pocket-” 


SEETHING POLITICS 


65 


“Twelve dollars! Now, what the hell use is 
twelve dollars? I got thirty, but after friend 
Dwyer soaks us we won’t have grub-money for 
the trip south.” 

“—and a trifle better than nine hundred in 
my money-belt. No, Morgan darling, I didn’t 
gamble. It’s my pay from Pelaya. I insisted 
upon cash in advance, and poor old Federico 
shelled out with all the joyous abandon of a Fort 
Worth pawnbroker. So there’s no burning neces¬ 
sity for rushing off.” 

Dwyer sat behind the office-desk preparing to 
close up for the night. His round blue eyes 
shuttled alertly from one to the other of the 
grinning partners. 

“Evenin’,” he grunted. “Arturo was sayin 
you gents figure to pull out to-morrow, so I wrote 
out your bill. Here y’are, gents.” 

They stared speculatively at the heavy face. 
Then Steve inspected the bill critically, put 
it down, and smiled widely upon the hotel- 
keeper. 

“Why, we changed our minds,” he drawled. 
“We’ll stick awhile, if she don’t put yuh out none. 
You see, we figure to settle—or somethin’,” 

“It’s your own affair, gents!” shrugged Dwyer, 


66 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


tearing the bill across. “Er—glad to have yon, 
o’ course.” 

When the door of No. 15 closed behind them 
Morg whirled to glare at Steve. 

“Why’n blazes did yon tromp on my foot when 
I started to call him? Neither one o’ ns said a 
word about shovin’ to-morrow, so Arturo never 
told him that. I’d ha’ told Dwyer, too, he’s too 
dam’ inquisitive to suit my book!” 

“Yes? Now, I begin to think he’s a ni-ice 
man,” purred Steve, yanking off his boots. “I 
saw you were set to deliver some nasturtiums to 
his address, so I—touched you gently.” 

“But why? Why? Why?” demanded the ex¬ 
asperated Morg. ‘ 1 Why shouldn’t I let him know 
we don’t fancy his burnin’ interest in our 
affairs?” 

“You might hurt his feelings, Morg,” Steve 
explained solemnly. He switched off the light 
and wriggled beneath the covers; not another 
word could Morg insult from him. 

Sleep was long in coming to Steve. He heard 
the new American clock in the post office tower 
announce midnight while he lay, shielding his 
cigarette-end from Morg’s eyes. His mind was 
busied with a chain of events, of names and faces 


SEETHING POLITICS 


67 


—Jones and his alternately patronizing and 
threatening manner; the native of the command¬ 
ing voice and ambitions plans, overheard at the 
mountain inn; Howard Mays and Gomez and 
Menendez; Congress and the oil-concession, in a 
mental dervish-dance. Estelle Mays, too- 



Chapter V 
JOBS FOR TWO 


S TEVE was silent during desayvmo, the 
morning meal. He did not intend to tell 
Morg of the scheduled call at the Mays’ 
house; Morg’s tongue was razor-edged when he 
found a joint in the Lawhorn armour. 

“Well,” said Steve, with artful carelessness, 
pushing back his coffee-cup, “think I’ll drift 
down town. Little matter I want to look into.” 

“Bueno! We’ll wander anywhere you say 
soon’s I get some more coffee. Hombre!” 

1 ‘ Oh, you needn’t bother to come! ’ ’ Steve rose 
hastily. “This—matter isn’t important. Any¬ 
way, I’ll tell you about it later. See you some 
more!” 

Morg stared keenly after his partner’s broad 
retreating back, noting that the grey suit was 
immaculately pressed this morning; that Steve 
was dressed, altogether, with unusual attention to 
detail; that he wore no visible weapon, having 
slung one Colt in a shoulder-holster beneath his 
shirt and left the other in a saddlebag. 

68 


69 


JOBS FOR TWO 

“Now, I wonder what’s a-bitin’ himf*’^muttered 
Morg. “He’s acted plumb mysterious—-not to 
say civilized—ever since he got here. 

“Well!” he dismissed the matter placidly and 
clapped for the waiter. “His head was always 
worth five o’ mine at figurin’; he’ll yell if he 
comes to boggy ground.” 

Meanwhile, Steve moved along the sunny 
Avenida Nacional toward Central Plaza. The 
sidewalks were filled with townspeople of all 
classes; occasionally an American or European 
passed Steve. He could read recognition in their 
blank, half-curious, half-hostile glances; Morales 
had evidently published the news of his arrival. 
Gradually the unfriendly attitude of these, his 
own kind, cooled the little glow of pleasurable 
anticipation with which he had left the hotel. It 
was one thing to make an unsophisticated girl 
believe in him, decidedly another to impress a 
hard-headed, middle-aged man, whose every ac¬ 
quaintance would draw horrified breath at the 
name “Lawhom.” 

So musing, he came to a low, white stone house 
on the Calle Grande, set back from the sidewalk, 
with a colourful garden before it. Steve was too 
proud to seem to hesitate, even though beginning 


70 


Tips TRAIL TO APACAZ 

to believe; himself upon a fool’s errand. He went 
grimlv/through the gate and clicked up the walk to 
the/door. A little brown maid in orthodox cap 
and apron took his hat and ushered him through 
a hall into the patio, where, upon the verandah 
encircling the inner house wall, sat Estelle Mays 
with her father. 

The girl rose quickly and came to meet him, 
noting both the subtle evidence of good taste in his 
clothing and a suggestion of rigidity that re¬ 
minded her of his attitude of the day before, when 
he had told her his name and watched her retreat 
before its impact. So she held out her hand 
boyishly, and smiled more warmly than otherwise 
she might have done. 

Howard Mays, a ruddy-faced, squared¬ 
shouldered man, stood waiting. The girl turned 
smilingly to her father, but Mays’ shrewd, dark 
eyes were narrowed in keen appraisal of the big 
soldier of fortune, of whom so many tales were 
told. 

“Dad,” said Estelle, “let me present Mr. 
Lawhorn.’* 

Mays shook hands gravely, and the two men 
stood for a moment openly studying each other. 
Then a slow smile, that reminded Steve of Estelle, 


JOBS FOB TWO 


71 

dawned in Mays’ eyes; his lips curved l^neath the 
close-cropped grey moustache. 

“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. La whom,” he said, 
“Thank you!” returned Steve, with answering 
smile. “For you seem to mean it.” 

They sat down, Estelle at her father’s side, 
Mays’ keen eyes roving over the tall, lean figure 
opposite, but always coming hack to the grave, 
tanned face. 

“Do you plan to remain long in Apacaz—in 
Flores?” asked Mays at length. 

“I haven’t made definite plans. When I met 
Miss Mays yesterday I was bound for Guatemala. 
But my partner was here before me, so that plan’s 
off. You’ll understand that there’s nothing for 
me to do in Flores. My —name is enough for the 
average man. I can’t get employment here. 

“Also—as well be frank—President Gomez may 
invite me to leave at any time. While I have 
never made him any trouble, a soldier of fortune 
such as I have been—is natural focusing-point 
for all sorts of intrigue, is not a good neighbour.” 

Mays nodded, and stared thoughtfully into the 
fountain for a space. Then he turned slightly, so 
that he faced both Estelle and Steve. 

“I noted that you used the past tense a moment 


72 


TBM TRAIL TO APACAZ 

ago,” he^said in business-like tone. “You said a 
soldier of fortune—such as you had been. Well, 
if y ou ’re really anxious to get out of this 
Evolutionist-game—to find employment—I’ll give 
you the chance. I believe that you’ve been lied 
about pretty extensively, else my judgment of 
men is getting shaky. Now, my company starts 
development work as soon as Congress grants me 
the oil-concession of which you’ve heard. 

“We’ll need good, energetic men for foremen; 
men with initiative; men who can boss natives. 
I’m sure you’ll qualify, and, if he’s cut along your 
lines, so will your partner. I’ll put you both to 
work at the best jobs you can handle. How does 
that strike you ? ’ ’ 

“Suits me to the ground!” Steve assured him 
earnestly. “But—you’re making this offer with 
open eyes? Remember, it’s ‘El Diablo 9 Lawhorn 
you’re hiring.” 

“I seldom do business when blindfolded,” Mays 
grunted dryly. “There’s a condition, of course. 
It will be at least a month before we can start 
work; during that time you’re to keep a clean 
sheet. Thirty days from now, if we’re both 
agreeable, you and your partner go on my pay¬ 
roll. Suit you?” 


JOBS FOB TWO 


73 


“ Absolutely!” Steve rose to go, and Mays got 
up also, holding out his hand. Steve gripped it 
hard. 

“I can’t seem to find anything to say but 
* Thank you!’ ” 

“Never mind the thanks,” smiled Mays. “I 
fancy we’ve both done a good morning’s work, 
myself no less than you.” 

He glanced at his daughter, who was smiling 
openly. 

She put out her hand to Steve. 

“We hope to see much of you, Mr. Lawhorn,” 
she told him. “The latch-string is out.” 

Steve turned toward the American, whistling 
softly to himself. No unfriendly glances from 
Apacaz’ foreign colony could trouble him now! 

Morg was in neither office nor bar-room, so 
Steve climbed the stairs to No. 15. As he closed 
the door behind him, still whistling, a slight cough 
drew his eyes to a dusky corner. There, with 
chair tilted comfortably against the wall, a news¬ 
paper unfolded upon his lap, sat Simon Jones. 
The face beneath the broad hat-brim could have 
been no calmer if this had been his own room, 
Steve the intruder. 

Steve regarded Jones for a long moment, then 


74 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


deliberately he pulled off his coat, laid it across a 
cot, and sat down to face his visitor. They eyed 
each other searchingly for a space, then Jones ’ 
mouth twisted beneath the ropy moustache. 

‘‘Told you you’d be communicated with when 
you got to Apacaz. Kind o’ slicked up these 
days, ain’t you?” 

‘ 1 Come to business!” snapped Steve. “Yuh 
never sneaked in here to admire my clothes. 
What’s your proposition this time ? ’ ’ 

Jones’ climbing eyebrows proclaimed mild 
surprise. 

“Why, I told you the proposition the other 
day!” 

“Yuh offered me a job—blind,” Steve corrected 
him. “Yuh said yuh’d explain ever’thing here in 
Apacaz. Well, I’m listenin’.” 

“Uh-uh! Uh-uh! I said I’d explain after you 
took the job,” grinned Jones, nodding wisely. 

“Meanin’ that I pass my word to back your 
play, regardless o’ what I might be told to dot 
Not half good enough! Yuh got to come clean 
with lots more ’n that! ” 

“Well, I told you that i certain powerful inter¬ 
ests’ in Flores offered you a job. You qualify for 


JOBS FOB TWO 75 

just the work they need done. In short, Pm of¬ 
ferin’ yon three hundred a month, gold.” 

“ Offerin’ me! Yeh! How do I know I’d get 
my money? Talk’s one thing, cash is somethin’ 
else again—an’ different. Now, if I knew for 
sure who’s backin’ this deal, an’ what he aims 
at, an’ what I’d be asked to do, why—I’d know 
what to say.” 

“But you won’t know, not until you pass your 
word to take the job. I’ve told you ever’thing 
I’m goin’ to. Don’t forget!” Jones added 
menacingly, “I got your number! All I gotta 
do is crook my finger, an ’—back you go, to Tierra 
Rica or to Texas.” 

Steve regarded the cuff of his silk shirt with 
studied admiration. Jones leaned forward 
grimly. 

“Well, is it a gunman’s job at good pay—or 
what ? ’ ’ 

Innocently Steve looked up. Slowly he folded 
his arms, and, under cover of the left shirt-sleeve 
unfastened three buttons below the collar. Now 
to test his plan! 

“That job?” he drawled. “Oh, excuse me; 
I was thinking about Buy Gomez. Great bird, 


76 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


Gomez; mighty brainy. Just needs a li’l hint an’ 
he sees the rest plain. I was thinkin’ about him 
mighty strong.’’ 

* ‘ What’s eatin’ you?” snapped Jones. 
“What’s Gomez got to do with it? Except, o’ 
course, to shoot you back to Tierra Rica or Texas, 
if you play the damfool!” 

Very thoughtfully Steve studied Jones from 
under lowered lids, wondering if there were no 
way to pump him. The man was shrewd—very 
shrewd. Steve wished ardently that he knew 
what moved in the weasel brain behind the dark 
face. That the interests Jones represented were 
hostile to Gomez, and so to Mays, who had treated 
him with extraordinary decency, Steve was cer¬ 
tain. The dialogue overheard in the mountain 
inn made him sure of that. But what form the 
6 ‘powerful interests’ ” actions would take he 
would have given much to know. 

“Can’t you talk?” demanded Jones furiously. 

“Yeh, I can talk. ’S funny, but I was thinking 
o’ doin’ that very thing—talkin’. But about the 
job. I’m afraid my tender conscience might be 
hurt if I was to take it. So, thankin’ you most 
kindly, I’ll have to say, ‘Not any, please!’ ” 

“You whatf Say, Lawhorn, if you think I was 


JOBS FOR TWO 


77 


bluffin’ yon got another think coinin’! You’re 
cuttin’ your own throat; you’re good as dead! 
Before the day’s over you’ll find that out. You 
won’t sneak away, either, Mister Man! ’ ’ 

“Oh, I don’t figure to sneak, not noways at all,” 
Steve assured him softly. “I’m plannin’ a 
friendly li ’1 visit to the Dictator. Yuh see, there’s 
several small details he likely ain’t hep to—the 
opposition to the Mays’ concession for one; an’ 
several conversations between a fella name’ Jones 
an’—*a certain powerful interest.’ I reckon 
Gomez’ll be mighty interested in what an expert 
like me has got to say.” 

“You ain’t got a speck o’ proof!” But Steve 
was listening strainedly, so he got the shadowy 
alarm underlying Jones’ belligerent tone—proof 
that the bluff worked. “As for me—huh! Fat 
chance they got o’ findin’ me! Not many men in 
Flores has ever laid eyes on me, an’ you got 
nothin’ to prove you ain’t just sparrin’ for time. 
Gomez’d just laugh at you!” 

Steve grinned as irritatingly as he knew how. 
He had Jones on the run. The thing to do was 
prod away; in his retreat Jones might drop some¬ 
thing illuminating. 

“Oh, you’re wrong, Mr. Jones; entirely 


78 THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 

wrong !” The cow-country drawl was gone, and 
Steve spoke in normal fashion. “I have mnch to 
lay before Gomez—if you or your employers in¬ 
sist upon annoying me while I attend my own 
private affairs in Apacaz. You made a serious 
tactical blunder, Jones—one common to mediocre 
intellects. You under-estimated your opponent. 

“Didn’t it occur to you that I’d never have 
gained the reputation which, for argument ’s sake, 
we ’ll admit I possess, without a certain ability to 
wriggle out of tight places? Surely you didn’t 
think that I’d permit myself to be bulldozed into 
a service of which I knew nothing! Frankly, 
does that seem the natural thing for ‘El Diablo’ 
Lawhorn?” 

Jones stared bewilderedly. The sudden transi¬ 
tion from lazy drawl to crisp English had taken 
him aback. Also, the germ of worry was work¬ 
ing. He was wondering just how much he had 
underestimated this calm-faced man of sugges¬ 
tive reputation. Steve read his expression with 
inward grin. 

“ You ’re not well known in Flores? Too bad! 
But we may remedy that. In fact ’ ’—Steve’s eyes 
narrowed grimly—“I plan to secure publicity for 
you, and at the same time furnish Gomez with 


JOBS FOR TWO 79 

proof of my assertions. With you beside 
me-” 

1 ‘Grab the roof!” The newspaper shot to the 
floor, revealing a heavy automatic aimed at 
Steve’s belt-buckle. Jones’ eyes gleamed like 
those of a trapped animal, but his gun-hand was 
steady. “I been holdin’ down on you ever since 
you come in. I saw your hand go inside your 
shirt. I know you’re heeled. Take that hand 
out— slow!” 

For the fraction of an instant Steve hesitated. 
Jones’ mouth twisted sideway; the pistol-muzzle 
lifted the barest trifle. 

‘‘If you ain’t reachin’ for the stars when I 
count two I’ll plug you!” 

Slowly, his face reddening with impotent rage, 
Steve withdrew the hand from his shirt-bosom 
and laced his fingers behind his head. With an 
effort he composed his features. 

“You don’t take me to Gomez! Now, I’m 
cornin’ over to get that gat. Better not wiggle an 
eyebrow while I’m doin’ it; I’ll drill you first 
move you make.” 

Jones covered the three steps separating them 
like a cat, sliding his feet over the bare floor until 
the automatic-muzzle touched Steve’s breast. 



80 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


1 ‘Don’t try to make me look behind!” he 
warned. ‘‘If you do, I’ll shoot, then look!” 

He jerked the Colt from the shoulder-holster 
and hacked toward the door. 

*‘Just sit quiet while I pull its teeth.” Jones 
slipped his automatic into the waistband of his 
trousers while he worked the ejector of Steve’s 
gun. Five shells dropped out, then Jones 
stooped swiftly and slid the gun under a cot; 
straightened, with the automatic again in his 
hand. “In case you might think o’ trailin’ me,” 
he grinned, “I’ll just lock you in.” 

“Don’t forget what I said about going to 
Gomez!” The greenish flame of wartime filmed 
Steve’s eyes. “ I ’ll surely interview him if I hear 
any more about either Tierra Rica or Texas. 
Gomez may not believe all I tell him, but he’s 
already suspicious. He’ll listen!” 

Jones had opened the door and transferred the 
key from inner to outer keyhole. He hesitated, 
studying the big, motionless figure in the chair. 

“I’m givin’ you a last chance at three hundred 
a month,” he said slowly. “Don’t you think 
you’re sittin’ pretty because you’ve picked up a 
rumour or two. Even if I do decide not to have 
you sent back to Texas—well, there’s plenty 


JOBS FOR TWO 81 

quiet ways to shut gabby mouths permanent! 
What d’you say?” 

6 ‘ Just two words: Get out! ’’ 

Steve watched the door close; heard the key 
turn. By this time he had jerked his loaded gun 
from a saddlebag and was upon a bench, opening 
the transom softly. But when he peered over the 
door the balcony was empty. 

As he resurrected his empty revolver and stood 
reloading it footsteps clicked outside. The key 
was turned and Morg came in. He stopped short 
to stare at his red-faced partner. 

“Well!” he grunted, when power of speech 
returned to him. “You always was a kind o’ 
peculiar Jiombre, but I never thought ’twould go 
this far! How come the door’s locked from out¬ 
side, while you stay so solemn an’ all in here?” 

“Who was downstairs when you came in?” 
Steve reholstered one Colt. 

“Well, Arturo’s at the desk, an’ in the dinin’- 
room the mozos are settin’ tables for almuerzo. 
Nobody else in sight. Why?” 

“Oh, I wondered.” 

“You wondered? Wondered what?” 

“How I got a name for gun-play, for one 
thing! ’ ’ 


82 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


The Colt leaped from the shoulder-holster with 
dazzling speed; Steve performed the “double¬ 
roll, ” the ‘ 1 road-agents’ spin,” then replaced it 
and drew again with the same bewildering 
rapidity. He repeated the operation a dozen 
times, winding up the exhibition by belting the 
second gun in his waistband and pulling both at 
the same instant. 

Morg looked on silently, a vertical wrinkle be¬ 
tween his brows advertising puzzlement. But as 
he noted the dark blood congesting Steve’s face 
beneath the tan, the vicious tightening of Steve’s 
mouth as the long Colts flashed up to the 4 ‘ready,” 
above all, the green flame in Steve’s eyes, a slow 
smile was born at Morg’s eye-corners. He gulped 
hastily, but at last could suppress his mirth no 
longer. 

“Well, what’s it?” snapped Steve, as Morg 
tumbled sideways on a cot in a spasm of noisy 
laughter. 

Morg wrestled with his emotions while Steve 
glared. At last he sat up, wiping the joyful tears 
from his cheeks. 

“Somebody’s took you down a buttonhole, 
Stevie! ’S no use crawfishin’; I c’n read the 
signs, Brother Stephen; 7 c’n read ’em! I don’t 


JOBS FOR TWO 


83 


know how he done it, but I’ll betcha that some¬ 
body’s just proved, to your complete satisfaction, 
that you ain’t, an’ can’t always be, top-dog. • Oh, 
mother, why wasn’t I here?” 

Steve glared, but after a moment the humour 
of the situation came to him. Besides, he had 
successfully bluffed Jones, he believed. There 
would be no open move made against him, and for 
personal attacks he cared nothing. So he smiled, 
if twistedly. 

“All right, cowboy,” he conceded. “Maybe 
you’re right. But the story doesn’t end here. 
‘Prayer-meetin’ ain’t over till the preacher goes 
home,’ as Uncle Billy Patton used to say. No, 
sir!” Grimly he reholstered the Colt, “In the 
next instalment I intend to do a lot more talking 
than I did to-day. I- Oh, let’s go to break¬ 

fast. I’m on the ragged edge of starvation.” 


Chapter VI 
CONFIDENCES 


S TEVE lifted his head suddenly and pushed 
back his hat. It was past three o'clock, 
and the sultry heat of early afternoon, that 
had made the dusty canons between the capital's 
rows of dazzling white houses unbearable, was 
lightening under a resinous breeze from the lofty, 
pine-clad northern peaks. Muffled hoof-beats had 
waked Steve as he sat drowsing in the bar-room 
doorway. He looked upstreet and saw Estelle 
Mays upon the tall bay mare. 

Morg was dozing in his tilted chair, so Steve 
stepped outside and lifted his hat. The girl 
nodded absently; her eyes remained fixed upon 
his face. Suddenly she straightened in the 
saddle. 

“ Would you mind riding with me for a little 
while?" she asked. 

“Mind! If you'll go through the gate there 
and get out of the sun, I'll have Paloma saddled 
in two shakes." 


84 


CONFIDENCES 


85 


They jogged easily out of town upon the chalky 
La Cruz road. Steve sensed constraint in her 
manner; she stared straight ahead between the 
mare’s ears, seeming oblivious of his presence. 
So he kept silence and studied her thoughtful 
expression. 

They came finally to the hilltop upon which he 
had first seen her. The girl reined in upon its 
summit, and, with elbow upon cantle, she propped 
her chin in gauntleted palm and stared frown- 
ingly across the tumbled vista to the east. Steve, 
dismounting, lounged near by with narrowed 
eyes fixed upon the drowsy peace of the scene 
below. He came under the spell of it all—the 
clear blue of the sky, dotted by creamy fleets of 
cirrus-cloud; the long slopes, alternately red and 
black, where hills thrust up rugged shoulders, and 
dark-green with woodland; stretching away to the 
rim of the glassy Caribbean, miles and miles to 
eastward. 

He turned back to the girl at last, and found 
her pounding riding-crop against extended boot- 
toe more and more viciously. 

“Are you a mystery to everyone?” she snapped 
abruptly. 

Steve shrugged, finding no answer to this. 


86 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“You puzzle me! I can’t catalogue you, be¬ 
cause you don’t seem to be, as 1 see you, ‘El 
Diablo’ Lawhorn, the dare-devil leader, the over¬ 
turner of thrones. Yet- I asked you to 

ride with me this afternoon because I wanted 
to talk to you. Now I hardly know how to 
begin.” 

Steve waited, touched by foreboding, his grave 
eyes upon her face. 

“I- My father heard this morning, in a 

roundabout way, that you—you ’re a fugitive 
from justice; a—that you’re wanted in Texas for 
murder and theft! ’ ’ 

She fairly blurted the last dread words, her 
eyes averted. Steve’s mouth tightened, so that 
hard white lines framed the lip-corners. This 
was the first girl in six long, drab years to meet 
him as a human being; it came to him keenly just 
how much it had meant to step even part-way back 
to the old, dead life; came with increased poign¬ 
ancy because the experience was ended. Uneasily 
she raised her eyes, past the tight-clenched hands, 
until they came at last to his strained, sombre 
face. 

11 1 couldn’t believe it. ’ ’ Her voice was low and 
troubled. “I- It isn’t pleasant to learn that 



CONFIDENCES 87 

one has been utterly mistaken. I had to hear 
your answer.” 

“Why, it’s true,” he admitted evenly. “The 
first part—not the theft-charge. That is included 
that I may get good measure. I am wanted in 
Saylor, Texas, for cold-blooded murder—shoot¬ 
ing a man in the back without provocation of any 
sort. There is, or was, a reward of one thousand 
dollars for my taking, dead or alive. I should 

have told your father all this, but- That 

charge has hounded me for six years! When you 
two met me as a human being I couldn’t make 
myself lose your acquaintance by telling. The 
fact that it isn’t true, isn’t justified—the charge 
—doesn’t make matters more pleasant.” 

He turned toward Paloma, while the girl 
watched him steadily. But when he caught the 
stirrup to remount she straightened in unmis¬ 
takable exasperation. 

“Well?” she demanded acidly. “Is that all 
you have to say? ‘Good-bye! We shan’t meet 
again, of course. ’ ’ ’ 

Steve dropped the stirrup and turned, bewilder¬ 
ment slacking his facial muscles. 

“What else can I say?” 

“You can tell me about it! You have the right 


88 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


to speak in your own behalf. Oh, I knew, yester¬ 
day, that something kept you down here. A col¬ 
lege man—I knew you were that—doesn’t bury 
himself in these desolate jungles without good 
reason. As for your shooting a man in the back, I 
don’t believe that at all. I’m waiting for your 
account.” 

She held out two slim hands imperiously, and 
Steve swung her down, keeping her carefully at 
arms’ length as he bore her weight. 

“Begin!” she commanded, settling herself com¬ 
fortably upon a boulder. 

So, sitting cross-legged at her feet, with pro¬ 
file turned toward her, he told everything, from 
earliest boyhood to the day of his outlawry. 
She waited for an instant when he halted at the 
end. 

“You—you hilled this man?” 

“I had to!” he told her defiantly. “I am not 
apologizing; not even sorry. In like circum¬ 
stances I would do the same without hesitation. 
He was just a human wolf.” 

“I—I think I appreciate your viewpoint,” she 
said hesitantly, yet staring as if in search of the 
blazing Cain-brand upon his forehead. “I can 
understand how you feel about it, but—I can 


CONFIDENCES 


89 


hardly conceive the conditions that make such an 
action necessary. The environment was so dif¬ 
ferent from any I’ve ever known.” 

“So was that of onr great-grandmothers,” he 
reminded her. “They killed Indians who at¬ 
tacked their cabins, and we pay tribute to their 
bravery. Why don’t we shudder at the thought 
that they had killed fellow-creatures? I wouldn’t 
have killed Jack Taylor if I could have avoided 
it; it would have pleased me vastly to hammer 
him insensible, instead. But I couldn’t, and— 
well, I’m not afraid to face his shade.” 

He flipped away the stub of his cigarette and 
faced her gravely. 

‘ ‘ There’s no way to clear up the—the shooting 
of this man?” she asked thoughtfully. 

“I see none. His fellow-killers were the only 
witnesses, and they swore that I shot him in the 
back without provocation. No, I suppose I’ll 
wander eternally up and down the earth, always 
with Bamon Guerra’s thousand dollars dangling 
over my head. ’ ’ 

Estelle got up, and her hands came out to him 
in impulsive pity. 

“I believe you! I believe in you, also. I can’t 
understand all the circumstances that make you 


90 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


feel as you do. Perhaps one has to experience 
them to really comprehend. But I do see that 
you had to shoot to save your own life; that the 
shooting was not criminal. I wish I—wish we 
could do something to help you. It’s terrible to 
think of going through life barred from one’s 
rightful place, an Ishmael because of a false 
accusation like that.’ 9 

Steve held her hands dumbly for a space, not 
trusting himself to speak. She withdrew from 
him with a nervous little laugh and turned to the 
mare. Steve came over and lowered his hand for 
her foot; raised her easily to saddle-level. He 
stood for a moment at her stirrup, the late sun¬ 
light striking his short hair, outlining the well¬ 
shaped head as with red, smouldering fire. 

‘‘ What you’ve just said means more to me than 
anything that’s happened since I jumped into 
Mexico,” he told her quietly. “I’ll always re¬ 
member. No matter what may come, I’d like to 
have you believe that.” 

Abruptly he turned and swung into the saddle, 
then they moved silently toward Apacaz. Where 
the trail curved, to begin the ascent of the table¬ 
land, Estelle turned suddenly to Steve, violet eyes 
narrowed slightly, holding a troubled glint. 


CONFIDENCES 


91 


“Now that we’re friends I’d like to ask your 
opinion regarding something. You’re experi¬ 
enced in the ways of these countries beyond any 
man I know. Will you talk to me just as if I 
were another man?” 

Steve nodded. 

“My little maid is a Costa Rican—doesn’t like 
Flores. I say this to prove that her sympathies 
are not with any of the people here. 

“I don’t know how much you’ve heard of recent 
events in Flores, so I’ll tell you that when Presi¬ 
dent Gomez promised dad the richest oil-conces¬ 
sion in the republic there was opposition 
from prominent politicians. Tri-Flag Syndicate 
wanted the concession also, and, from what I’ve 
heard, most of the Congressmen favoured it—for 
private profit, it’s rumoured. 

“President Gomez seems so all-powerful that 
it hardly entered our heads that any friction could 
persist, once he’d declared he didn’t want Tri- 
Flag to have the oil-lands. You see, he didn’t 
like what he’d learned of Tri-Flag; he doesn’t 
trust Forster Gaylord, the syndicate’s represen¬ 
tative here. So he favoured us.” 

“I know,” nodded Steve. “Much of this I’ve 
heard.” 


92 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“The other day Dolores, my maid, came to me. 
She’s sharp as a needle; very little escapes her. 
She said that while in the market-place two army 
officers swaggered in, drnnk. They had just seen 
me ride past and were discussing dad and me. 
One of them mentioned the concession, and both 
laughed. Dolores repeated their words. 

“ ‘Mays thinks the concession as good as in his 
hands,’ the first man said. 

“ ‘Yes,’ sneered the other, ‘but if a—certain 
one does not desire him to have it, what then? 
1 think the Senor Mays is to be much surprised!’ 

“Both of them laughed, but suddenly seemed to 
grow alarmed. They glanced about nervously 
and soon left, without saying anything more. 

“When I told dad of this he just—grunted. He 
isn’t nervous, and, too, he trusts the President 
implicitly. But he told President Gomez about it, 
for when we dined at the palace day before yester¬ 
day the President smiled at me. He said we 
weren’t to worry; the concession was as good as 
in our hands. Some of the Cabinet members, he 
went on, had at first favoured Tri-Flag, saying 
that it was better-established than dad’s company, 
but all such objections were now withdrawn.” 


CONFIDENCES 


93 


“What did Colonel Morales say to all this?” 
inquired Steve suddenly. 

“Why, he and his mother looked bored. 
Colonel Morales takes very little interest in poli¬ 
tics, I imagine, while his mother—this is her 
second marriage; Colonel Morales’ father was 
Minister of War until his death—never looks at 
anyone but her son. 

“Now, what the President said should dissipate 
all my doubts, and still—I can’t seem to achieve 
peace of mind. It’s more heart than head, per¬ 
haps, which won’t let me wait calmly for Con¬ 
gress to pass the Bill giving us the concession.” 

Steve stared silently along the chalky road, 

smoking thoughtfully. Straws, straws- Ever 

since he had crossed the border of Flores he had 
seen straws floating, without being able to deter¬ 
mine the current that bore them, or the true 
course of their movement. In plain words, he 
sensed a strong, sinister undercurrent that 
threatened Mays’ interests, but mysterious hints 
without apparent source were the only clues. 

“You mustn’t worry about those men’s gossip¬ 
ing,” he reassured her, forcing a smile. “Ruy 
Gomez is perhaps the strongest figure Central 


94 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


America has ever produced. His word is law in 
Flores. Some of the Cabinet members and Con¬ 
gressmen are fairly important, but all bulk mighty 
small by contrast to Gomez. Please don’t worry. 
You’ll get the grant!” 

“Do you really mean that! Or is it just an at¬ 
tempt to reassure a worried girl!” She was 
studying his face keenly. 

“I mean it, every word! Three weeks from 
now you ’ll have the concession signed and sealed. 
Now you won’t worry any more! Promise!” 

She relaxed, displaying a most bewitching 
dimple in either cheek. Steve looked, then hastily 
he stared elsewhere. 

“I promise!” she smiled, holding out her hand 
as earnest of the pledge. “You’re a most consol¬ 
ing confidant. Did you know that! ’ ’ 

“It’s good to hear you say it, anyway. I’ll be 
happier than I can tell you if you’ll just slant 
anything that troubles you on to me. Aside from 
my selfish desire to protect my prospective job 
I’d like to have you believe that I’m anxious to 
serve you.” 

“I do believe that!” she returned warmly. “I 
feel much better for having told you of my child¬ 
ish worries. Also I feel”—she hesitated, with 


CONFIDENCES 


95 


the colour rising slowly beneath the smooth skin 
of neck and face, then went on deliberately— 
11 that your shoulders are broad, strong, and— 
straight.’ ’ 

Steve found his thoughts sufficiently engrossing 
as they jogged on townward. He had as much as 
promised that nothing should block Gomez’ will 
in the granting of the concession. He prided 
himself upon always making his word good, so 
the action was directly up to him, yet he had not 
the faintest idea of what to do. 

On the sidewalk before the Mays 9 gate they saw 
Howard Mays, with Morales and a slender, clean- 
cut youngster in serge jacket and white trousers, 
his stiff straw hat displaying a Yale-blue ribbon 
about the crown. 

“Tommy Harrison / 9 explained Estelle, “local 
retail representative of the Vulcan Oil Company, 
of which his father is president / 9 

Harrison reached the sidewalk-edge a pace in 
advance of Morales. Without looking at Steve at 
all, he raised his hat smilingly to Estelle, who 
held out her hands to be helped down. Steve, dis¬ 
mounting deliberately, marked the little flush of 
triumph on the boy’s face, and Morales’ cha¬ 
grined expression. Then the girl was on the 


96 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


sidewalk, rewarding Tommy Harrison with a 
flashing smile. 

Steve had nodded to Mays. Now he was com¬ 
paring himself somewhat wistfully with Tommy, 
half-envious of the handsome youngster. He 
could not know that Estelle was comparing him 
with both Tommy and Morales, and finding his 
long, powerful figure most pleasing of the three, 
partly because of his air of grave maturity, the 
aura of dependability about him. 

“Mr. Harrison,” said Estelle rather pointedly, 
“this is Mr. La whom.” 

Tommy shot at Steve an unmistakably hostile 
glance, then bowed stiffly. Steve inclined his 
head, suppressing the amused smile the boy’s 
sulky dignity provoked. Morales was glaring at 
the big Texan, so Steve met his eyes and nodded 
courteously. 

“So! You are not go!” remarked Morales 
ominously. “In Apacaz your business is— 
what f’ ’ 

Steve shrugged. Elsewhere he would not have 
been so quiet, but Morales was Gomez’ stepson, 
and so—at least in the presence of the Mays— 
Steve wished to avoid argument with the pomp¬ 
ous little Colonel. It would not be fair to the 


CONFIDENCES 


97 


girl and her father. For the sake of the peaceful 
record he hoped to establish in Apacaz, Steve 
hoped Morales would not force a scene. 

“Pm looking over your town,” he replied 
slowly, “nothing more.” 

At what he regarded as insolent evasiveness 
Morales reddened angrily. 

“Senor,” he said threateningly, “I have told 
you that we of Apacaz are see many wandering 
white men. They are not good! We are ever 
pleased to see them in the back—to go away. 
When ladies and gentlemans come”—he bowed 
sweepingly to the others—“we are pleasured. 
But with the revolutionists, the gun-fighters, who 
ride into our city and swagger about, we are not 
pleasured! Senor, it is much more better—for 
you—that I see you not many times again. I 
speak for my step-father, the President.” 

“My hearing is at least normal,” Steve assured 
him, with lips still softly curved. “But—Dm 
sorry, really—I don’t know just how long I’ll be 
here. ’ ’ 

Despite the smile, Morales moved uneasily 
under the hard eyes that bored into his. Steve, 
taking off his hat, turned to the others. 

“Mr. Harrison, I have been honoured in meet- 


98 


THE TEAIL TO APACAZ 


ing you. Miss Mays, I shall see you and your 
father soon, I hope?” 

4 4 Without doubt,’ ’ smiled the girl. 44 Our latch¬ 
string is out—still.” 

Howard Mays glanced curiously at his daughter, 
then returned Steve’s smile. 

44 Surely! Come up any time, Lawhorn. ’’ 

The genuine cordiality of the invitation waked 
a pleasant warmth in Steve as he jogged sedately 
toward the American. 


Chapter VII 


EAVESDROPPING—AND A NECKTIE 
HEY returned to the bar-room after 



comida —the evening meal. Morg fidg¬ 


eted restlessly during part of a game of 
billiards, until Steve put up his cue in disgust. 

“Oh, drat billiards!” grinned Morg. “Let’s 
go play with Bill Faraday.” 

“No, I’ll stick here awhile. Want to think.” 

“Think!” jeered his bosom-companion, as 
from the doorway they watched the yellow lights 
flicker up in windows along the quiet avenue. 
“How d’you get that way? Better trail with 
Uncle Morg, Stevie, so’s nothin’ll bother you 
while you wrastle with them imitation mental 
processes. No? A’right! I’ll go by myself an’ 
be in good company!” 

Steve grinned affectionately as he watched the 
lanky figure fade into the darkness upstreet. 
Years worked small change in Morg; outwardly, 
a cheerful drifter; inwardly, worthy son of 
“Smoky Joe” Connor, and a steely-nerved, ex- 


99 


100 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


ceedingly efficient man of war. In the face 
of Steve’s problems that night it was pleasant to 
know that such an one as Morg stood at his 
shoulder. 

Presently Steve stepped outside. He turned 
slowly down the cross-street leading toward the 
capital’s outskirts, away from the lighter avenida. 
Natives passed him, ghostly in white clothing 
and hare feet, as he moved on, whistling the re¬ 
frain of the foxtrot last to reach the tropics via 
phonograph-record. Turning from the cross¬ 
street to another which cut into it, Steve made a 
leisurely circuit, and after a quiet half-hour was 
within a few squares of the long row of govern¬ 
ment buildings facing the Plaza, and the big 
houses of various national officials. 

Street lamps were economically wide apart 
here. As Steve lounged on a corner his grey 
clothing blended with the gloom. He glanced 
idly upstreet in the direction from which he had 
come, and the foxtrot died abruptly. A hurrying 
figure was passing beneath a street lamp, and with 
the glimpse he had Steve glided swiftly into the 
shelter of a tree on a sidewalk-edge. 

The moon came from beneath a cloud, its sud¬ 
den flood of white light making the street almost 


EAVESDROPPING—AND NECKTIE 101 


as bright as day. Simon Jones, now within a 
yard of Steve, hesitated, glancing up and down, 
then hastened forward, keeping to the shadow of 
the buildings. 

The furtiveness of his movements was in itself 
suspicious in that deserted thoroughfare. But, 
without that, Steve was keenly interested. He 
had been lamenting his forced inaction; now 
Jones spelled opportunity. 

When Jones had gone past for fifty feet Steve 
slipped from his shelter and followed, adopting 
his quarry’s method of keeping to the duskier 
shadow of the building-faces. Jones edged for¬ 
ward rapidly but cautiously, halting at each cor¬ 
ner to stare suspiciously in all directions, then 
moving on, with Steve in pursuit. 

They neared the Plaza. Over the housetops the 
strains of the band came distinctly. At a dark 
spot on a wall in the next block Jones halted. 
Steve edged softly forward until he could drop to 
the ground beside the same wall, barely twenty 
yards from the gate. He had identified the house 
as that of Carlos Menendez, the Minister of War. 

A rapping sounded; three knocks; a space; then 
four in quick succession. 

“ Flores!” said Jones in a stage whisper, ap- 


102 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


parently to a challenge from within. The gate 
opened to admit him, then closed noiselessly 
again. 

Flat upon his elbows, Steve considered the 
situation, for Jones’ visit to Menendez’ house 
opened several avenues of speculation. Was this 
his hiding-place, or did he come to-night only to 
attend a conference, or upon some similar er¬ 
rand? At last Steve ceased pondering and rose. 

“If it’s important to Jones it’s just as impor¬ 
tant to me!” he muttered grimly. 

The wall was nearly ten feet high, of white¬ 
washed adobe brick. Steve could see nothing 
moving in either direction, so he leaped and caught 
the walltop, drawing himself up until he could 
throw a leg over and so wriggle to a squatting 
position upon the top. Then he swore ag- 
grievedly beneath his breath, for the walltop 
bristled with broken glass, and he had cut his 
hand upon a sliver. He dismissed the slight 
wound from his thoughts and squatted alertly for 
a moment, listening for any sound from the gate¬ 
keeper who had admitted Jones. Then he swung 
over cautiously and dropped inside. 

The moon emerged from the clouds again, and 
Steve found the gateman instantly, a squat blotch 


EAVESDROPPING—AND NECKTIE 103 


sitting by the portal. Steve lay upon a trim lawn 
dotted with clumps of shrubbery. He crawled 
forward, moving from bush to bush, reached the 
back of the two-story house—that was made 
desolate-seeming by its shuttered windows on this 
side—and continued on a circuit of the walls. 

On the side opposite that he had first examined 
a gleam of light split the black length of a shut¬ 
tered window. Like other windows of both floors, 
this one opened upon a small balcony. It was an 
easy feat for Steve, standing upon the rail of the 
first-floor balcony beneath the lighted window, to 
extend his long arms to the fingertips and catch 
the floor of the upper balcony. He “chinned’’ 
himself until his face was level with the floor, 
then supported himself with one arm and caught 
the railing, hoisting himself noiselessly over it. 

A murmur of voices came from within. Steve 
strained his ears for warning that his ascent had 
been observed, but house and grounds lay in 
deathly silence save for this muffled monotone in¬ 
side. He pressed his ear against the crack of 
the shutters—long, iron leaves hinged to the 
window casing and opening in the centre. 

“So that’s off! He says ho’ll go to Gomez an’ 
tell what he knows if we put the screws on him 


104 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


openly.’’ It was Jones’ voice. The man paused 
with the sentence-end, as if concluding a report. 

“But what does he know?” The impatient 
question came in that commanding voice Steve 
had overheard at the mountain inn. 

“Search me! I don’t think he knows anything 
but what I hinted to him—about somebody in 
Flores wantin’ a No. 1 gunman. But he’s the 
devil himself for puttin’ things together! He 
ain’t named ‘El Diablo’ for nothin’! An’ he’s 
no common roughneck, either; he talks an’ acts 
like it, just to keep people guessin’, but he’s 
wearin ’ the trade mark o ’ some college right now. 
I’ll bet my last red on that!” 

“Humph!” The grunt conveyed a wealth of 
exasperation and contempt. “I am confident that 
you bungled the business, Jones. But I don’t 
consider Lawhorn important, whether for or 
against us. He has no possible interest in af¬ 
fairs here; doubtless he will leave shortly.” 

‘ ‘ Maybe so. But he’s camped at the American 
like he figured to stay indefinite. He an’ his side- 
kick, Connor, they’ve been mixed in more kinds o’ 
hell than any other ten Americans that ever hit 
C.A. I just got a line on Connor to-day, an’ if 
half what I got is true we better keep our eyes on 


EAVESDROPPING—AND NECKTIE 105 


this pair. I think you’re— under-estimatin’ ’em, 
General, I do.” 

1 ‘Nonsense! If they get in the path of Carlos 
Menendez they’ll be trampled.” 

Steve nodded in satisfaction. This was the 
Minister of War himself, just as he had expected. 
Indeed, none but the Minister—by Faraday’s ac¬ 
count most influential man in Flores after Gomez 
—could dare to scheme on the scale that Steve 
began dimly to comprehend. 

“If these grmgo rowdies”—Menendez was 
speaking again—“become troublesome, they can 
easily be—eliminated. As for their connection 
with Mays—why, is Lawhorn different from the 
other imbeciles here? Witness little Morales’ 
subjugation at the Mays girl’s hands! 

“7 think Lawhorn’s refusal of your offer proof 
that he is not so dangerous as you fear. I believe 
that his narrow escape in Tierra Rica frightened 
him. As the Americans put it, he has ‘lost his 
nerve. ’ But if I am wrong—well, there are many 
ways in which this pair can be removed”— 
significantly. 

Steve put his eye to the shutter-crack and 
peered into the room. He could see Menendez, a 
frock-coated, imposing figure, with big, slightly- 


106 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


grey head, lowered slightly. Jones was invisible. 

Menendez turned his head slowly. His features 
were heavy without coarseness. The brow was 
very broad, seeming almost to overbalance the 
lower face; the eyes, long and narrow, were jade- 
green, as steady as a snake’s. The hooked nose 
fitted well the wide, almost lipless mouth, the 
pointed chin. Altogether a strong, sinister face. 

“You have instructed all those on the list I gave 
you?” 

“All of ’em, General! They’re ready. Coinin’ 
back I met R. I give him his orders.” 

Menendez nodded, and resumed his study of the 
rug. 

41 General. ’ ’ Jones broke the silence hesitantly. 
“Uh—you know that bunch o’ mahogany on the 
Rio Dulce we spoke about other day?” 

Menendez nodded without looking up. There 
was something about his moveless attitude that 
reminded Steve of a great serpent coiled patiently 
beside a game-trail. 

“I’m kind o’ short o’ cash right now. I sure 
could use that timber-” 

“To-morrow you will have it,” promised 
Menendez. 

“Thanks, General! You’re always mighty 


EAVESDROPPING—AND NECKTIE 107 


good. Uh—there was somethin ’ else. Old San- 
cho Ortiz died last week, you know. No heirs. 
What’s to be done with his sugar-plantation? I 
—I been mighty useful to you, General-” 

The hesitating whine ceased sharply. Menen- 
dez had merely raised his head, his green eyes 
glinting opaquely beneath drooping lids. But the 
changeless yellow face was somehow a menacing 
mask. Steve felt this, and so, apparently, did 
Jones. 

“So you dare to bargain with me?” 

Not one word accented above another, but in 
that even voice was a quality that stiffened Steve 
unconsciously; after the words sudden death 
seemed the logical sequence. 

“I didn’t think you’d dare, Jones.” 

Then, within range of Steve’s vision, shot up a 
trembling hand—brown, dirty, palm flung pla- 
catingly upward. Steve sucked in his breath 
sharply. Jones himself was still invisible— 
only that horribly quivering hand and wrist 
showed. 

“You are a greedy hog, Jones. Toss you one 
reward and immediately you are eager to guzzle 
another. I have been too liberal. It is time to 
settle you once for all. Tell me, if I should but 


108 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


crook my finger to certain of my servants, what 
would happen ?” 

“I—Pd be knifed, or poisoned, or strangled!” 
gasped Jones. “Don’t look at me like that, Gen¬ 
eral! I was only wonderin’! I don’t care about 
the Ortiz place!” 

He came in sight now, grovelling at Menendez’ 
feet. Steve watched the abased figure con¬ 
temptuously. 

“Who would miss you?” Menendez continued 
remorselessly. “Who would ever connect Carlos 
Menendez with the vanishing of—Leo Gorman? 

“You thought your secret safe? You poor 
fool. Do you think that I employed you 
without knowing your past? Why, I need not 
trouble my servants; I have only to notify the offi¬ 
cials in—a certain American city and you will be 
extradited to-morrow. Think of the noose, Leo 
Gorman! Have you forgotten that murder?” 

‘ ‘ It wasn’t murder! ’ ’ yammered the miserable 
figure. “Manslaughter was all it was!” 

“Manslaughter only? Be it so. But there 
were other felonies. Life imprisonment would be 
the lightest sentence you could hope for.” 

“I know it, General! But you won’t tell! 
Think o ’ the help I been to you! ’ ’ 


EAVESDROPPING—AND NECKTIE 109 


“Get up! So long as yon are faithful to me I 
have no interest in exposing you, but let me see no 
more of your sickening greediness.” 

Jones—or Gorman, as Steve always thought of 
him afterward—pulled himself shakily to his feet. 
A chair creaked beneath his limp weight. 

“As you remarked awhile ago,” Menendez said 
quietly, ignoring the scene just past, “most of the 
details are arranged. There remains the most 
important single matter, of which you know. 
Attend to that man’s release to-morrow; see that 
it is accomplished secretly. Keep him safely and 
instruct him thoroughly. Rehearse him as I have 
directed. 

“As for these Americans—forget them! Law- 
horn, I am sure, is interested in the Mays girl. 
This afternoon I saw them returning from a ride. 
He was in gala-clothing; his cravat was blue, 
with white dots—a marvellous creation!” he 
chuckled. “But if they become troublesome we 
will arrange their elimination.” 

“Morales, he wants La whom abolished right 
now.” Apparently Gorman had recovered from 
his panic. “Says the girl’s his an’ he ain’t goin’ 
to stand any hornin’ in. Says he’ll see to Law- 
horn; to little Harrison, too.” 


110 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“Nornbre de Diablo! That utter imbecile! 
Tell him I command him to keep hands off. This 
is no time for brawling with Americans—partic¬ 
ularly with Harrison, whose father would turn 
Flores upside down if his son’s skin were but 
scratched. Dios knows what such a furore might 
show Gomez! Tell Morales that I handle this in 
my own way. ’ 9 

Half-turning in his chair, Menendez took a 
cigarette from a silver box. He moved articles 
about the table-top as if in search of a match, 
then got up and opened a table-drawer. The 
next instant he was rushing toward the window, 
a revolver in his hand. The shutter swung swiftly 
open at his shove, but not before Steve’s muscles, 
acting with the mechanical speed of a wolf’s, had 
jerked him to his feet. 

The shutter, swinging back, pinned him against 
the balcony-rail. Menendez’ face and the ex¬ 
tended hand pointing the revolver popped through 
the opening. Then Steve’s right arm swung as 
on a pivot; the knotted fist smashed squarely 
against Menendez’ chin. There was the pistol’s 
crack and a bullet singing across the shrubbery, 
then, with the grunt and crash of a poll-axed bull, 
Menendez dropped backward into the room. 


EAVESDROPPING—AND NECKTIE 111 


Gorman cried out profanely as Steve dropped 
over the rail. His figure darkened the casement, 
and bullets cut the ground at Steve’s heels as 
Gorman pumped his automatic empty. The serv¬ 
ants were evidently well trained and alert. There 
came a rush of feet from the house-corner as 
Steve dived into the shelter of a stumpy lemon- 
tree and began wriggling toward the street-wall. 

Steve was thankful that the moon was behind 
the scurrying clouds. With Indians at his heels 
he needed all the advantage he could get. Noise¬ 
lessly he inched across the lawn, halting at every 
tiny sound behind him. He was near enough to 
see the wall’s dim bulk ahead when a rustle came 
from the bushes close behind. He rolled over and 
came to his feet as two vague shapes streaked 
down upon him. He struck out at the nearest, 
and the man crumpled silently under the terrific 
blow. But the other closed in; a knife cut a 
gleaming line toward Steve’s body. He stopped 
the blow, feeling the blade slice lightly across his 
left palm; then clawing fingers were at his throat. 

The man was almost as large as Steve. Ignor¬ 
ing the fingers that felt for his windpipe, Steve 
braced his feet a trifle apart and beat the thick 
body terribly with vicious ‘ 4 hooks” that carried 


112 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


every ounce of power in his big shoulders. It 
seemed that he mauled the man for ages, though 
it could have been no more than thirty seconds, 
until a rib snapped under a crashing fist and the 
clinging figure sagged. The arms dropped, and 
Steve, turning slightly to set himself, shot home 
a final tremendous ‘ 4 right’ ’ beneath the ear. 

The other servants were close upon him now. 
He leaped at the wall, caught the top, and 
scrambled over. As he turned the next corner 
downstreet the patter of running feet sounded 
behind him, and he dodged into a doorway, 
Colt in hand. Barefooted figures, long-bladed 
machetes drawn, went past like a pack of eager 
hounds. 

In an hour he made only six blocks, for he 
moved with infinite caution, seeking shelter of 
doorways whenever light footsteps warned him 
of the pursuers’ approach. The simple-minded 
Indians were evidently most serious in their ef¬ 
forts to secure the eavesdropper; Steve estimated 
that at least twenty of them were in the hunt. 

Gaining the lighted Avenida Nacional at last, 
Steve mingled with the home-going crowds from 
the band-concert. He straightened his rumpled 
clothing as best he could, and moved swiftly 


EAVESDROPPING—AND NECKTIE 113 


toward the hotel, hiding his bleeding hand and 
attracting no attention from passers-by. 

In the bathroom he washed the bloodstains from 
hands and clothing. The slight cuts in his palm 
had already ceased to bleed. Morg was asleep, 
and Steve did not wake him. As his fingers 
fumbled at his collar he sat down suddenly. The 
polka-dot necktie, which Menendez had seen him 
wearing, had been jerked from his throat by the 
Indian he had grappled on the lawn. 

Now it would be open war! From this moment 
on his life would be in very real danger every 
hour of the twenty-four. Menendez was not a 
man who dealt in idle threats; he would give no 
quarter. At last Steve shrugged resignedly and 
got into bed. According to his code, there was 
no use worrying over a matter that was settled. 
The heavy bar was across the door; he laid his 
gun beneath his body, where his hand would fall 
naturally upon it. Being rather used to hover¬ 
ing danger, he fell almost instantly asleep. 


Chapter VIII 

A FAIR EXCHANGE 



ONG reflection decided Steve upon one 


point. He must tell Morg how they stood 


^ with Menendez. So that afternoon, when 
the siesta hour was past and the breeze made the 
outdoors bearable, he steered Morg to a secluded 
bench in the Plaza and unburdened himself. 
Rapidly he sketched the chain of events which had 
entangled him since arrival in La Cruz and meet¬ 
ing Jones—or Gorman. 

< 1 By Joe! ’ ’ grunted Morg at the end. * ‘ This is 
good! Even if Mays hadn’t offered us jobs, I’d 
say, Stick for the fun o’ the thing. Well, since 
we gotta stand by an’ crimp friend Menendez, 
what’s to do?” 

“Now, you tell me and I’ll tell you! No use 
going to Gomez. Probably I don’t know a thing 
he hasn’t already learned. His secret police 
must have warned him that there’s tension in 
Apacaz—in the country generally. If he hasn’t 
moved it must be for lack of anything definite to 


114 


A FAIE EXCHANGE 


115 


take hold of, and I can’t furnish him that. I be¬ 
lieve that Menendez understands that we’re ac¬ 
tively against him, but that we’ll play the game 
with him outside official lines—if he does the 
same. He won’t move to have me sent back to 
Tierra Eica or Texas; instead he’ll hire somebody 
to stick a knife in my back—and yours, amigo mio! 

“The whole thing’s a tangle. My bet is that 
Menendez is puffing up the Congressmen with 
promises to back ’em, so that they’ll surprise 
Gomez by refusing to pass the Mays’ grant. Tri- 
Flag Oil would spend a million or two to get a 
concession of that size, and undoubtedly the Con¬ 
gressmen and Menendez would see much of that 
million. Now, if the whole Congress should dare 
to line up against the old man, Gomez could hardly 
bulldoze ’em into obeying him. 

“He might dissolve Congress, of course, using 
the army to make his hand pat, but that would be 
desperate tactics—mighty desperate. He’d have 
to win overwhelmingly or go under. I wonder if 
that’s what Menendez is playing for—to make 
Gomez risk everything on one roll of the dice— 
and fail?” 

“Maybe. Anyway”—the war-light was glow¬ 
ing in Morg’s blue eyes—“we can’t pull out now 


116 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


till the smoke blows away, one way or other. 
Let’s get the dope straight. Menendez, plus 
Gorman-Jones, is backin’ Tri-Flag. Must be, 
since there’s just Mays an’ Tri-Flag in the field, 
an’ he’s against Mays. Menendez is framin’ 
somethin’ to put the kibosh on Gomez; on Mays; 
on us, since we go on Mays’ pay-roll when he gets 
his grant. 

“Bueno! Until you left your cra-vat for a 
callin’ card (that’s what you get for wearin’ a 
necktie!) Menendez wouldn’t take us serious, 
but now we’re on his black-list, too. TJm-hmm! 
Well, sister, we better be a-sharpenin’ up our 
tommyhawks, for there’s sure as hell goin’ to be 
bloody war between us an’ Menendez!” 

‘‘Gentlemen!” drawled Bill Faraday. “Or 
should I say, ‘Gentlemen conspirators’?” 

Morg hauled Faraday down to a seat between 
them. 

“Was you a-listenin’ in on our plot?” he de¬ 
manded menacingly. “You ever hear what hap¬ 
pened to a certain long-eared cat?” 

‘ ‘ Frankly, ’ ’ said Faraday, his eyes upon Steve’s 
smiling face, “I heard only the last sentence. I 
would remark, if yo’-all insist upon a statement, 
that two Luggers may be added to yo’ battery at 


A FAIR EXCHANGE 


117 


command, that wherever Menendez stands, Vm 
opposite. Now we’ll let the matter drop right 

there, or- Yo’-all can trust me, as I hope yo’ 

know. ’’ 

“Bill,” said Steve slowly, “the only thing that 
makes us hesitate is our reluctance to haul you 
into real trouble you needn’t mix in.” 

“Sho!” grinned the old adventurer. “Trouble 
is the banner-lubricant for stiffening joints; ex¬ 
citement’s that fountain Mr. Ponce Leon couldn’t 
locate. If that's all that holds yo’, why, orate, 
m’son, orate!” 

So Steve told his story, and Faraday nodded 
thoughtfully. 

“Dovetails perfectly with little things I’ve 
observed. But I fear that I can be of little help 
just now. Of course, yo’-all may count me in 
wherever an’ whenever I’m needed.” 

“Why do you say it ‘dovetails’?” 

“Oh, there’s a tenseness in the cafes and 
drinking-places; gathering heads; low, mysterious 
conversations; odd signals between passers-by— 
all the Latin accompaniments to deep, dark con¬ 
spiracy. Yo’ know! I’ve seen the signs rather 
prominently of late. In the Cafe de las Estrellas 
particularly. ’ ’ 


118 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“The Cafe of the Stars. Hm! What sort of 
cabaret is that?” 

“Very interesting, in a way. Old Pedro Men¬ 
doza owns it, and he’s by way of being a character. 
Shouldn’t care to walk ahead of Pedro in a dark 
alley. But Pedro isn’t the lodestar of the Stars. 
His daughter Carlotta is the magnet that draws 
the young bloods of the capital to the cafe— 
half Italian, half Floreno, and altogether devil. 
Amazingly beautiful in tigress-fashion; slow- 
moving, sinuous, languorous, or all vibrant flame, 
just as the mood moves her. 

“Morales was at her feet—or under ’em— 
until the little Mays lady reached Apacaz. Since 
then he has dropped away from Carlotta’s list of 
admirers, and—I sometimes wonder what re¬ 
venge the fair Carlotta plans. She isn’t the 
damsel to be won and lightly tossed aside! De¬ 
cidedly a rose with thorns. ’ ’ 

“So Morales was conqueror?” Steve’s mind 
was more upon Menendez than the lovely and 
dangerous Carlotta. 

“Only in a sense. Carlotta’s no common light 
o’ love; don’t think it! Morales offered to marry 
her, and she bent more to the position than to the 


A FAIR EXCHANGE 


119 


man, I fancy. But yo’-all should see the place— 
and Carlotta—for yo’selves. The young fire¬ 
brands of Apacaz gather there of evenings. Car¬ 
lotta may sulk for a week, then suddenly decide to 
dance. When she dances—well, it’s an event! 
I saw her once.” 

*‘We’ll sure give that joint the once-over!” 
grinned Morg. “I ? m real interested.” 

“Gently! Gently!” warned Faraday. “Car¬ 
lotta is a noted man-breaker. Once she has them 
hooked she loses interest. She ’s of the type which 
could adore a man with exterior of ice and heart 
of flame—if such an animal exists. But she’s not 
the only danger at the Stars; one of her admirers 
might develop a dislike for the colour of yo’ hair 
and scalp yoM” 

“Oh, don’t say that, Bill! You’ll have me so 
palpitated-up that I ’ll be scared to go. 0 ’ course, 
Steve, he’ll protect me if the party gets too rough, 
but you’ll have him so nervous he won’t go pretty 
soon. Won’t he, Stevie?” 

“Huh?” said Steve, looking up suddenly. 

“Oh—peanuts! He wandered off, Bill. Just 
wandered away an’ left us a-sittin’ here. Poor 
boy! He’s got a lot on his li’l mind besides that 


120 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


red hair an’ new Stetson. Guess I’ll herd him 
back to the hotel, so nothin’ can run over him 
while he rambles. Ready ?” 

“Huh?” said Steve again, then stared bewil- 
deredly as they laughed. “What’s the joke?” 

“ ’S no use tellin’ him, is there, Bill? He’d be 
gone again ’fore I started.” 

Sadly, in the fashion of one leading the blind, he 
jammed Steve’s hat over his eyes, pulled him to 
his feet, and winked at Faraday. 

“He'll be O.K. after awhile,” he imparted in a 
stage-whisper. “Just a li’l problem that’s got 
him down. The word wasn’t in his speller, so he 
ain’t sure whether there’s one or two ‘l’s’ in 
‘Estelle.’ Come on, cowboy; we’re trailin’ for 
home. ’ ’ 

They wandered into the bar-room when they 
were done the evening meal. In this, the natural 
lounge of the hotel, they might sit at a table 
against the wall and find company, without com¬ 
pany returning the compliment. For at the other 
tables gathered their fellow-guests, with idlers 
from the streets, discussing a thousand and one 
topics of local, and so national, interest over their 
drinks. 


A FAIR EXCHANGE 


121 


To-night the long room was more crowded than 
usual. One of those tides of travel, the cause of 
which for ever puzzles the white man in Central 
America, had borne travellers from all parts of the 
republic. Only the well-to-do native can afford 
hotel prices, so at the tables lounged men of the 
middle and upper class; coffee and cacao and ba> 
nana planters; stockmen, shopkeepers, and small 
government officials. They drank and talked 
subduedly. 

Snatches of conversation from a half-dozen 
groups floated to Steve, whose Spanish was more 
comprehensive than the average upper-class na¬ 
tive’s. But, strain his ears as he might for evi¬ 
dence of the undercurrent he knew was setting in 
against Gomez, nothing reached him that seemed 
of value. Not a hint of concessions, of Gomez, 
of Menendez, of Tri-Flag, was included in any 
conversation he heard. So he sauntered outside 
to the street. Morg lagged behind for a moment 
to buy tobacco, then joined Steve at the corner. 
They fell into step and strolled toward the Plaza. 

“You missed somethin’,” grinned Morg remi¬ 
niscently. “Big Indian name’ Araya just told 
the world an’ all that Menendez is a yellow-livered, 
double-dealin’ aristocrat. Said Gomez is the man 


122 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


for men; real Mayan like himself. Mentioned 
Mays’ concession, too; said if Gomez was against 
Tri-Flag, then so was he. Invited the bar-room to 
send Menendez to him for a nose-pullin’. The 
gang in there looked scared stiff.” 

They walked on silently. There was no hint in 
the warm, fragrant night of the violent death both 
knew hovered somewhere very near them. But 
if their faces were calm, their eyes were most 
alert. Menendez, from birth holder of the high 
justice, the middle and the low, over all the people 
on his broad acres, was not apt to consider a 
man’s life as much more valuable than an insect’s. 
To him they themselves were merely annoying 
details. Being troublesome, they would be re¬ 
moved as expeditiously as possible. 

Flores, for all the testimony of its purblind for¬ 
eign colony, its veneer of civilization, its celluloid 
semblance of modernity, was not modern. It was 
fourteenth century still, mediaeval in its viewpoint, 
barbaric in its methods. Both knew this, and 
they did not intend to be caught unaware. So 
they went slowly upstreet, coats open, two but¬ 
tons of their shirts unfastened, revolver-butts 
within easy reach, though hidden in the shoulder- 
holsters. Not that they really expected hostili- 


A FAIE EXCHANGE 


123 


ties here on the lighted avenue; Menendez was far 
too clever to make a direct move that might re¬ 
quire explanations to Gomez. Besides, it was un¬ 
necessary; there were too many efficient, devious 
methods available in Flores to an ingenious, en¬ 
tirely ruthless man. But they felt more comfort¬ 
able with weapons near at hand. 

*‘ That big fellow Araya was pretty much pro- 
Gomez !” remarked Morg thoughtfully. 

“But you said that the crowd didn’t share his 
opinion. I think I shouldn’t care to insure Ara^ 
ya’s life to-night; he’s my idea of an all-around 
poor risk.” 

The band was playing when they seated them¬ 
selves in the Plaza. Steve listened whimsically, 
thinking of other bands, other days; of circus- 
parades in El Paso and Fort Worth; of college- 

hops- He came out of the reverie, and, lifting 

his eyes, met the level regard of Estelle Mays. 
An odd, pleasant tingling went through Steve as 
she beckoned. 

Morg was covertly watching the scene. • He 
grinned quietly at the colour welling up in his 
companion’s tanned cheeks. Then they crossed to 
where the girl sat with her father. Steve intro¬ 
duced Morg, and saw that with one smile from the 



124 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


girl his partner was made her faithful liegeman. 
Estelle made room beside her for Steve, while 
Morg sat down on the right of Howard Mays. 

Somehow, Estelle had learned of the attack 
made on Menendez the night before. She leaned 
slightly toward Steve, so that he felt the tingling 
sensation again as her arm brushed his lightly. 
In a whisper she communicated the amazing story 
which was current in the capital. Steve grinned 
inwardly at the account of twenty or more des¬ 
peradoes who had been foiled by the courageous 
Minister and his servants while attempting assas¬ 
sination. But he refused to speculate concerning 
the Minister’s enemies. 

“It interests me to hear that he has such daring 
opponents,” persisted Estelle in the same guarded 
tone. “He led the opposition to dad, and I can’t 
believe that he’s changed his opinion. I regard 
him as our enemy, so I can’t help sympathizing 
with others who oppose him.” 

“Remember your promise! You weren’t to 
worry; you were to slant your troubles on to my 
rather accustomed shoulders and let me bear 
them.” His eyes held hers until she smiled, 
somewhat uncertainly. She knew that she was 
flushing warmly under his steady regard. “I 


A FAIR EXCHANGE 


125 


will be pleased,’’ Steve went on earnestly, “if 
you’ll believe that I have but one aim in life at 
present—to see your father get that concession. 

“You couldn’t pull me off the job of watchful 
waiting if you tried. I’m keeping my eyes on 
everything here. I’ll do everything in my power 
to defeat anyone who stands in the way of Gomez’ 
will. ’ 9 

Under cover of her light wrap he patted her 
hand comfortingly. Her fingers slipped into the 
shelter of his palm, and nestled there as a 
frightened child’s might have done. Again Steve 
knew that tingling thrill. Then calmness came to 
her face; she smiled gratefully up at him. Gently 
she withdrew her hand. 

“You’re—you’re surely a good influence!” she 
breathed. She might have said more, for the 
violet eyes were ashine with warm gratitude. 
But Steve’s face hardened subtly, and she turned 
to follow his gaze. 

Morales was approaching. The little Colonel’s 
darting glance found the group, and he hastened 
forward. At sight of Steve and Morg the red 
lips tightened, but he gave no other token of 
displeasure. 

“Ah, senorita!” He bowed low over Estelle’s 


126 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


hand, the heels of his patent-leather boots to¬ 
gether in the German fashion. “I have been 
desolated. I cannot find you for a time and I 
think you are not here.” 

At a loud command two barefooted little 
soldiers lounging near by ran up with a bench and 
placed it so that Morales might sit beside the girl. 
He rattled on, ignoring the partners, and Estelle 
replied sometimes to his inanities, but gave Steve 
the bulk of her attention. 

At last the concert was over. They waited for 
the crowd to thin, then moved toward the street- 
entrance and halted. 

“Good-night, Mr. Lawhorn,” said Estelle, smil¬ 
ing up at Steve. “And, Mr. Connor, I hope you’ll 
let Mr. Lawhorn show you the way to our house.” 

“He’ll be tickled to death to do it,” Morg 
grinned maliciously, “an’ I’ll be more pleased 
than that to let him.” 

They turned down a cross-street leading toward 
the Avenida Nacional and the hotel. 

“Cheerful hairpin, Morales,” grunted Morg. 
“Notice the lingerin’ look he handed us?” # 

‘ 1 That’s just his sweet way of parting from dear 
friends,” Steve returned slowly. His mind was 
dwelling upon more important items—smiles, and 


A FAIR EXCHANGE 


127 


eyes that were now violet, now duskiest purple 
with depths in which a man might drown himself. 

Morg stumbled suddenly over an unsuspected 
elevation in the sidewalk and hopped for two 
anguished steps, anathematizing the darkness and 
the street-works of Apacaz. 

i ‘Hell l 91 he grunted. ‘ 1 This’d be a lovely night 
for a murder!” 

It was dark; pitchy-black except at street cor¬ 
ners, where ancient oil lamps marked discouraged 
circles of pallid light that seemed to make 
darker the surrounding gloom. They moved on 
cautiously, boot-heels clicking upon the tiles. 

Then a silvery gleam shot past Steve’s face; 
something tinkled on the sidewalk. Without hesi¬ 
tation Steve whirled, and the long Colt flashed 
from the holster beneath his arm; two lightning 
bullets went through the doorway they were pass¬ 
ing. Morg’s gun had come out also, only a split- 
second behind Steve’s. He stooped to snatch up 
the knife which had hurtled between them. Then 
Steve yanked him against the house-wall. 

“Come here, you idiot!” he snapped. 1 ‘They 
can see us when we can’t see them. It came from 
this door. Hell!” 

His groping fingers encountered no door in the 


128 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


opening. He poked and prodded with gun-muzzle 
without result, then pushed head and shoulders 
cautiously into the doorway. 

“Just a shell! I saw the stars when I looked 
up. Well, it’d he plain suicide to go through. 
We’d be perfect targets against the white wall. 
Let’s ramble! ’ ’ 

They took to their heels, and not until they had 
gained the comparative safety of the lighted 
Avenida Nacional did they slacken pace. Then 
Morg handed over the knife. It was a haftless, 
double-edged dagger, a foot long. Beautifully 
balanced, it made almost as effective an arm for 
close work as a gun, in the hands of an expert at 
knife-throwing. Only the darkness had saved 
Steve; two inches to the left and it would have 
skewered his throat. 

“Cute li’l toy, eh?” grinned Morg. “Couple 
weeks more growth an’ she’d he a full-grown 
machete -” He broke off suddenly. 

“This is it!” he growled. “Betcha anything 
you like that this is why Morales didn’t look 
peeved at seein’ us in the Plaza.” 

“Well,” replied Steve thoughtfully, “a necktie 
for a bowie-knife isn’t such an uneven exchange. 
I’ll just hang on to this. Maybe I’ll get a chance 


A FAIR EXCHANGE 


129 


to let Morales use it for a teething-ring. I’d love 
that!” He whirled Morg about. “But wait a 
minute! ’ ’ 

“What’s it?” 

“ We ’re going visiting! Remember Carlotta, of 
the Cafe of the Stars? We now proceed to in¬ 
spect the lady, Morg!” 

They found the Cafe of the Stars only after a 
quarter-hour of diligent searching, for Pedro 
Mendoza seemed superbly indifferent to the bene¬ 
fits of advertising. The cafe occupied a two- 
story adobe building on a narrow, ill-lit side- 
street a dozen squares from the Plaza. Only when 
the door was reached could one read the faded 
announcement of the place’s character. 

They were greeted at the door by the twanging 
of guitars and a plaintive caution de amor in a 
woman’s shrill soprano. Laughter and gabbling 
voices rose high above the singer’s effort. 

Inside they found themselves at the end of a 
long, low-ceiled room, filled with tables, around 
which gathered men. No women sat with the 
patrons, but at the far end, beside a battered 
piano, were three blowsy, short-skirted girls, 
whose garb seemed to proclaim them entertainers. 
The place was disagreeably crowded, noisy, reek- 


130 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


ing of liquor and stale tobacco-smoke and perspir¬ 
ing humanity. 

Steve’s roving eyes located Morales, seated with 
a tall, stupid-faced man who tugged constantly at 
a drooping, tawny moustache. Forster Gaylord, 
Steve knew the latter to be, Tri-Flag Syndicate’s 
representative de luae. These two occupied a 
table far down the room, and Morales’ back was 
toward the door. Beyond them was a vacant 
table, and the partners threaded their way through 
the drinkers toward it. 

Half-way down the room a waiter spied them 
and pulled out chairs. They seated themselves, 
and at that moment Morales saw them. His 
black eyes fairly bulged; his mouth sagged ludi¬ 
crously open for full ten seconds, while he sat 
rigid. His expression proved guilty knowledge, 
at least, of the knife-throwing, and Steve was 
satisfied. He made no sign of recognition, pass¬ 
ing over the gaping face as if he had not seen. 

As the waiter stood expectantly, from a table in 
a corner a girl came slowly. She wore the tradi¬ 
tional short scarlet skirt of the Spanish dancer, 
with gold-embroidered, short-sleeved, waist-length 
jacket of black velvet over a blouse of creamy silk. 
Her stockings and slippers were gold-coloured, 


A FAIR EXCHANGE 


131 


and through the lustrous black coil of her hair she 
had thrust a single blood-red rose. Imperiously 
she pushed aside the waiter, and stood, rounded 
arms akimbo, staring down into the faces of the 
Americans with appraisal that would have been 
insolent but for its superb unself-consciousness. 

Steve met her eyes calmly. Morg stared in un¬ 
disguised fascination. In truth, Carlotta Men¬ 
doza might have well drawn a second look from 
any man. It was not so much that she was rav- 
ishingly beautiful; there was a suggestion of law¬ 
lessness that clung about her like a perfume. It 
was in the large, brilliant, dark eyes, in the droop 
of her scornful lids, in the curve of the scarlet 
mouth—in all the face together. But most of all 
it was in the poise of her lithe, rounded figure. 
She carried that tigress-spell so often mentioned, 
but so seldom seen. This, and impetuous in¬ 
tensity, made the keynote of Carlotta of the Stars. 

The waiter had given way swiftly, and she stood 
staring—her eyes upon Steve after one flashing 
glance at Morg—until she was quite content. 
Then she smiled, a humble little lip-curling all the 
more mocking for its pretence of humility. 

“What is the senores* pleasure V 1 Her low, 
clear voice made insolent the civil question. It 


132 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


was as if a monarch had taken a scrubwoman’s 
mop and pretended to be a scrubwoman. 

She brought their drinks with an air of exag¬ 
gerated respect, but flanking the limonadas on the 
tray was a glass of wine. She usurped the vacant 
chair without a by-your-leave, and clinked her 
glass upon Steve’s. 

1 ‘ To our much better acquaintance! ’ ’ she smiled 
flashingly. Steve noted that Morales’ face had 
suddenly darkened; that the stupid-faced Gaylord 
was blinking owlishly at them. 

“I like Americans!” said Carlotta suddenly, 
clearly enough to he heard at the tables around 
them. “These hoys”—the heavy bracelets jan¬ 
gled barbarically as she indicated the other drink¬ 
ers with a careless, contemptuous gesture—“are 
very well in their way. They wear uniforms 
brighter than a macaw’s feathers, and, like other 
parrots, chatter much and loudly. So they think 
themselves devils. Sometimes I smile, as if I, 
too, thought so. But later—I laugh to myself. 
I like Americans, for I like—men! I should much 
like to learn to speak the English—if I but had a 
teacher-” 

She eyed Steve slantingly over her glass-rim, 


A FAIR EXCHANGE 133 

little black head on one side. But Steve was with 
difficulty keeping a straight face at the effect 
of Carlotta ’s words upon Morales. Carlotta 
frowned. She was not used to being ignored, 
even for a moment. Imperiously she tugged at 
Steve *s sleeve until he smiled slowly upon her. 

“You will be—friends with me?” she de¬ 
manded. 

“You honour me beyond my deserts,” replied 
Steve solemnly. She searched his face for the 
sarcasm she sensed behind the polite words, then 
bent swiftly toward him with a hint of anger. 

“I am not jesting with you!” she declared 
earnestly. “I would much like to have you for 
my—friend; and the friendship of Carlotta of the 
Stars is not to be touched lightly!” 

Then all seriousness vanished. Turning so 
that she faced Morales squarely, she stared 
straight through him. She made witty comment 
upon the men at the tables, sketching their biog¬ 
raphies with fluency, point, and perfect disregard 
for the victim’s feelings. 

“That,” she would say, as if exhibiting an 
interesting animal, “is Sancho Valdez. A Colo¬ 
nel in the army is Sancho, and in the cafes, or at 


134 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


the concerts in the Plaza, he is a mighty warrior. 
But if Flores should go to war, then would Sancho 
fall ill with great suddenness .’’ 

Her clear voice carried distinctly, and the speci¬ 
mens selected wriggled frantically as they at¬ 
tempted pretence of not hearing, hut sent black 
glances toward the amused Americans. Morales 
she left alone, after the one dig at his myriad uni¬ 
forms and bold chattering. But he sat glowering 
at the trio. Steve wondered idly if the much- 
adorned little Colonel could be jealous. 

“You will come again—very soon?” she begged, 
when the partners rose. 

“How could we stay away from Carlotta?” 
smiled Steve, looking down at her. 

“That is not real talk!” she pouted. Stepping 
swiftly around the table, she stood close before 
him, her fingers caught in his lapel. Her hand 
brushed the bulk of the Colt beneath his shirt. 
With the contact her brilliant eyes widened, and 
she made of her mouth a scarlet “ 0. ” Then she 
smiled ravishingly up at him. 

“I mean it when I say that I like you very 
much; that I want you to come again. You will 
come ? Answer me with straight words ! 9 ’ 

He nodded, gravely this time, and she rewarded 


A FAIR EXCHANGE 


135 


him with another smile. Suddenly she plucked 
the rose, that was no redder than her lips, from 
her hair, jammed its stem through his button¬ 
hole. Steve, staring over her shoulder, saw 
Morales 9 face go almost black with congested 
blood; saw the full lips shrink snarlingly back 
from white teeth. So he reconsidered his impulse 
to refuse the flower and let it stay in his lapel. 

1 ‘ A dream! ’ ’ breathed Morg ecstatically, as they 
went by quiet, dusky streets back to the hotel. 
“By Joe! Adream! ,, 

“A dream V 9 grunted Steve. “Yes! A dam’ 
bad one!” He jerked the rose from his lapel and 
flipped it gutterward. 


Chapter IX 


“COME TO CARLOTTA OF THE 
STARS ” 

“‘W’F we’re seen wandering about inside there the 
whole town will know what we ’re after, ’ ’ said 
JL Steve reflectively, as they stood before the 
doorway of the ruined house from which the 
knife had come, pretending occupation in building 
cigarettes. 

“Well, you watch an’ I’ll take a pas ear around 
inside,” suggested Morg. 

Swiftly he inspected tiny marks on wall, door¬ 
way, and dust. He had an almost uncanny genius 
for trailing, and now he announced his findings in 
a running monotone. 

“Both your bullets went through. No chips on 
the door-facin’. Both missed, I reckon. They— 
no, he —stood right here an’ flipped the bowie as 
we passed. He’d probably followed us for 
a while, then cut ahead an’ waited. He slung the 
knife, then hiked. You could drive a team 
through that hole in the back wall. Two lines o ’ 

136 


“COME TO CAHLOTTA” 


137 


tracks, made by the same hairpin. One where he 
tippy-toed in; Mother where he left ns. No blood; 
reckon he was ahead o’ yonr bullets alia way. 
Sloped down the alley here, an’—I reckon he’s 
passin’ the far boundary o’ Guatemala if he 
didn’t stop. 

“Now,” he grunted, joining Steve on the side¬ 
walk, “what’s to do? Hell’s bells! I wish these 
gunies’d come into the open an’ start a man- 
size ruction! This waitin’ their pleasure is 
gettin’ tiresome. Well, we don’t get paid for 

standin ’ here. Might’s well drift- What’s it, 

muchachoV ’ 

The last was delivered to a fox-faced urchin 
who had come silently up behind them and now 
tugged imperiously at Morg’s sleeve. 

“Senor Lah-hong!” lisped the boy. 

“Lawhorn? There’s your party.” Morg 
jerked a thumb toward Steve. 

The muchacho motioned for Steve to stoop, and 
when his lips were at Steve’s ear whispered 
mysteriously: 

“Come to Carlotta of the Stars. She must see 
you alone—now.” 

He would say no more, so Steve parted from 
Morg and followed in the youngster’s wake to 


138 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


the Cafe of the Stars. It was not an errand to 
Steve’s taste for it required postponement of the 
call he had promised himself to pay the Mays. 

As he entered the long room, and his eyes be¬ 
came accustomed to the dusk of the interior, he 
made out a dimly-white figure at a table in the 
rear. 

4 ‘This way, senor!” called Carlotta, rising to 
greet him. 

Steve moved toward her, and she waited until 
he had come down the room, then stepped sud¬ 
denly to meet him, halting almost against him. 

“I wondered if you would come—to me!” she 
breathed, and the touch of her, the shadowy odour 
of perfume that seemed to envelop her, both were 
vastly disturbing to a man whose relations 
with women had been of the slightest—from 
choice. 

“You sent for me!” he countered, and she put 
her sleek head to one side and eyed him slantingly. 

“Yes, but—still I wondered. I hoped you 
would come, because I have something to tell you 
which I think important, and—because I wanted 
to see you again.” 

Steve, staring searchingly down at the luring 
oval of her face, was also wondering. Morales 


4 4 COME TO CARLOTTA” 


139 


had dropped Carlotta to try for Estelle. Now, 
on which side of the fence was Carlotta ? Did she 
hate Morales in consequence, or was this little 
play intended, somehow, to aid him? He chose 
his words carefully before he spoke. 

“I was surprised to receive your message,” he 
said gravely. “I have been here but a few days, 

but even in that time I have heard-” He 

hesitated, as if unwilling to go on. 

“You have heard what?” she demanded 
sharply. “Things of me? Lies! Lies! Lies! 
Never do these pigs of men tell of Carlotta Men¬ 
doza the truth! They come; they sit here and 
stare at me with the eyes of dying burros. I 
laugh at them, and then —then they go away and 
tell of me lies! What have you heard?” 

“No doubt it was but a lie,” Steve said mus¬ 
ingly, “for why should the Presidents stepson 

offer to a cafe-owner’s daughter marriage -” 

“He did!” she interrupted fiercely. “Perhaps 
you think that Carlotta of the Stars is not fit to 
be the wife of the President’s heir? Well, I say 
to you that in this very room he went upon his 
knees and begged me to marry him! ’ ’ 

“Then you belong to him!” said Steve shortly, 
and whirled about. 


140 THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 

But Carlotta snatched at his sleeve with the 
strength of a man in her slim fingers. 

“No! I belong to no man! He asked me to 
marry him and I laughed, saying, 4 Of a cer¬ 
tainty !’ as I have done with other men. I had 
no thought of marrying him really. That is all. 
I am not Jose Morales ’.” 

Steve doubted part of this. An opportunity to 
become the wife of Gomez’ stepson would hardly 
be flouted by a cafe-owner’s daughter, no matter 
how beautiful. But it suited his book to have 
Carlotta think that he believed what she desired 
him to believe. He came closer. 

“But you—love him?” He raised her face, 
with hand beneath her chin. 

“No! No! No! I hate him!” Her very 
vehemence made Steve sure that Morales had 
jilted her. “He—he has told these lies,” she 
finished somewhat lamely. ‘ ‘I—I like you! More 
than I have ever liked any man. See! Now I 
have told you that which many men in Apacaz 
would give all they own, or might steal, to hear me 
say to them. ’ ’ 

She drew herself up to the proudest erectness 
her slim figure could achieve. 

“Carlotta Mendoza, senor, has not the need to 


“COME TO CARLOTTA” 


141 


throw herself at men. They come to her feet!” 

Steve smiled. This was quite credible, even 
though her wiles, her vibrant beauty, left him cold. 
He was insulated against the magnetism of her 
by thought of other things—thought of another 
woman. But since he wanted very much to hear 
what it was that Carlotta had to tell him, it would 
be poor policy to offend her before she had told; 
seeming insensibility to her physical charms, his 
instinct warned him, would constitute the insult 
unforgivable. So he looked down at her in simu¬ 
lated admiration. 

“That I can well believe, even though I have 
known few women. Too, I believe that you do 
like me, since you wish to tell me something of 
importance.’ ’ 

“Ah, yes; that!” 

She sat down again and motioned him to the 
chair beside her. One slim hand lay carelessly 
upon the table very near his own. Steve under¬ 
stood ; he covered it with his own. Carlotta 
smiled covertly. 

“Your friend,’’ she said indirectly. “Last 
night I heard him call your name —St e-eve!” 
She put a pretty drawl into the word, looking at 
him seductively. “Ste-eve. I like it much! I 


142 THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 

shall call you that. But I have things to tell 
you! 

“Last night, saw you the tall man of the yellow 
mustachio, he who sat with Morales and watched 
you always, looking ever like the—the burro for 
silliness! You know him! Good! But do you 
know that it is in his face alone that he is the 
burro? But, yes! Inside his head he is one very 
sharp man, that Gaylord. He goes up and down 
the city, looking as if he knew not even his own 
name, but that is not so. No! He is very good 
friends with the aristocratas; he spends much, 
much money entertaining Congressmen and gov¬ 
ernment officials. He is not the tonto —the fool. 
No, Ste-eve! 

“Gomez has promised to the other Americano , 
Mays—your friend—the great oil-concession. He 
has vowed that Gaylord shall get nothing. Yet 
Gaylord believes that Mays is to be Senor Empty- 
Hand! Now, why should he believe that? Mo¬ 
rales speaks often—to Gaylord—of the day when 
Gaylord’s company shall get the concession. 
Why should Morales think that Gomez’ will is to 
be set aside so ? But you care nothing for this. 
It matters not to you if Gomez is balked. But 
for your own safety- 



“COME TO CARLOTTA” 


143 


“Last night Morales came here with Gaylord. 
They took a table and began to talk, very softly. 
I wondered what it could be that Morales—whom 
I hate—had to say to Gaylord, so I went without 
noise into the back room. See, yonder is a little 
door which my father keeps locked. It opens 
upon the back room. I went in there and listened. 
Their table was against that door, so that they 
were very near. I could not see into this room 
through the keyhole, for Gaylord’s back was 
against it, but I could hear. 

“They spoke most carefully, Ste-eve, twisting 
their words so that I made little of what they 
meant. Also, they spoke of things which meant 
nothing to me. But I heard them speak of Con¬ 
gressmen ; of the other Americano, Mays; of 
Gomez; and, of course, of the oil-concession. 
Gaylord said to Morales that now all the Con¬ 
gressmen and many government officials—es¬ 
pecially one powerful Minister—were in favour of 
his company. He said that this great Minister 
would control the vote of all Congress when it met. 

“Then Morales spoke of you, as if you had 
much to do with the concession; with turning it to 
one side or another. I did not understand that; 
what has ‘El Diablo’ to do with politics here? 


144 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


But no matter; Morales is very angry with you, 
Ste-eve. He said—this is what I wished to tell 
you—that soon would you he very sorry for the 
day that you came here. He said that something 
most bad was quickly to happen to you!” 

Her tense face was hut a few inches from 
Steve’s. He smiled at her calmly. 

“No more? He said nothing else?” 

“Is not that enough? Nombre de Dios! Must 
you know that you die within the hour before you 
become interested? Santa Maria! Los Norte 
Americanos! Does nothing stir your cold 
blood?” 

Mechanically, Steve brought out Durham and 
papers. Carlotta took them from him and rolled 
deft cigarettes for both. His she placed between 
her lips, then leaned forward for him to take it. 
But Steve was thinking; he bent absently and took 
the cigarette. Carlotta, obviously piqued by the 
coolness with which he had approached her lips, 
lit both cigarettes poutingly. 

Evidently, reflected Steve, Morales had expected 
the knife-thrower to he dogging the partners at 
the very moment he sat there with Gaylord. So 
Carlotta’s warning seemed rather belated. It 
was the other features of her account that inter- 


“COME TO CARLOTTA” 


145 


ested him. General warnings seemed quite su¬ 
perfluous, since he had listened to the sinister 
threats made by Menendez to Gorman. 

“Did Morales tell Gaylord why he wanted me 
to die?” 

“No. He but said that he hated you; that he 
would like to challenge you to a duel. Tell me, 
if he challenges you, what will you do ?” 

“Accept, I suppose. But, as challenged party, 
I choose the weapons. So I’ll specify auto¬ 
matic shot guns, loaded with buckshot, across a 
handkerchief. ’ ’ 

‘ * Oh, but, Ste-eve, never was such a duel! With 
the shotguns! Across a handkerchief! Oh, 
Santa Maria!” She stared at him to see if he 
were joking, then caught his hand tensely. “I 
do not think that Morales will dare challenge you 
after I tell him your way of duelling. But, 
Ste-eve, can you guard against a knife in the back, 
a shot from the darkness, poisoned food? So do 
men die often in Flores, when they have offended 
—someone! 

“Best mount the great white mula and ride 
away swiftly, Ste-eve! ’ ’ 

“ ‘El Diablo’ to run away from little Morales? 
No, Carlotta; I’m staying. If my death is to 


146 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


come, then it will come. But I don’t think that 
I am fated to die that way.” 

“I did not think that you would run away,” 
she confessed ruefully. “But you will be very 
careful, Ste-eve? More and more I like you; 
never have I known such a man before, and—and 
if anything should happen-” 

“Surely, I’ll be careful,” he interrupted smil¬ 
ingly. He rose, and, by way of assurance and 
farewell, swung her lightly from her feet to 
shoulder-level. She smiled at him and waited, 
dark eyes half closed. So he implanted a dabby 
kiss upon—or round about—the scarlet mouth, 
then set her down lightly. 

“Pardon the interruption,” apologized Tommy 
Harrison very dryly from behind them, “but I’d 
like some cigarettes —when it’s convenient.” 

Carlotta ignored Tommy and stared earnestly 
up into Steve’s face. 

“You will remember?” she whispered, standing 
very close against him. “Watch always Morales, 
and Gaylord of the donkey-face and mind of the 
fox?” 

“Surely! Thank you for telling me this, Car¬ 
lotta. Good-bye!” 


“COME TO CARLOTTA” 147 

As he stepped outside her voice came clearly to 
him: 

“Buy your cigarettes at your hotel, little boy. 
I sell only to gentlemen, and spies are never that!’ 9 

Steve grinned ruefully at thought of Tommy 
Harrison purveying to the foreign colony an ac¬ 
count of his flirtation with Carlotta. Well, it 
could not be helped. He shrugged, and went on 
toward the American. 

Morg looked up from his gun-cleaning as Steve 
stepped inside No. 15. The lanky puncher was 
humming, and his face wore a grin twin to that of 
the cat of the canary fable. Steve sat down and 
waited, for the symptoms were unmistakable. 

“Pm just a pore, simple cowpunchy , whined 
Morg dolefully. “Ever’body sees I’m an igno¬ 
ramus an’ starts pickin’ on me accordin’.” 

“Meaning?” Steve regarded his partner 
smilingly. 

‘ ‘ Gaylord in p ’ticular! Out o ’ the whole popu¬ 
lation o’ Apacaz—to say nothin’ o’ the visitors— 
he cuts me out an’ fills my innocent mind just 
cramful o ’ terrible stories, Steve. You’d ought to 
speak to him about it! ” 

“I’m thinking”—Steve’s face hardened 


148 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


abruptly—“that I will have a word or two to 
whisper to him in the next hundred years or so. 
Well, spill it!” 

“After you shoved along came Gaylord, pullin , 
his moustache an’ blinkin\ He plumb forced 
himself on me. Nothin’ crude, understand; he 
did it mighty smooth. Well, almost before I could 
say 4 Scat!’ I was facin’ him across a table in the 
Sultana patio. Steve, I got that bird’s number . 
I says to myself: ‘Mr. Connor, s’pose you was a 
brainy bird, holdin’ a job that kept you swappin’ 
cayuses with other wise hombres, what’d be a 
winnin’ play?’ 

11 Back comes the answer like a mule-kick: ‘ Act 
like a locoed bronk, o’ course!’ So I twiddled my 
thumbs an’ just waited for him. He fumbled an’ 
hesitated, splittin’ up his talks with grunts like a 
windbroken pack-mule on a long hill. But finally 
it come out. He passed on a li’l warnin’ that 
there was lots o’ unfavourable talk about you 
circulatin’ through the capital. Said that, as a 
fellow-American an’ all, he was for you. His 
advice was to skip, an’ that dam’ sudden. Didn’t 
know where or how he got this dope. Sort o’ 
soaked it in through his pores, I gathered. But 
he told me several times that I’d best get you o’ 


“COME TO CARLOTTA” 


149 


Apacaz muy pronto. Wanted to know if I 
thought you’d go.” 

“You told him, of course?” Steve knew his 
partner very well. 

‘ ‘ Why, cert ’nly! Told him, sorrowful-like, that 
you was twin-brother to Paloma when it come to 
bein’ persuaded—also as regardin’ a kick in your 
hindlaigs. I kind o ’ reckon Mr. Forster Gaylord, 
late o’ New York an’ suburbs, is wonderin’ just 
how much information he did drop a loop over.” 

“Carlotta told me that his stupidity was only in 
his face. I think he’s just trying to land a dig in 
our morale; trying to get on our nerves. He’s 
with Menendez, you bet! That’s where his 
interest lies. I fancy this yarn was invented im¬ 
promptu when he saw you on the street.” 

“Well,” said Morg, “I’ll beat you three out o’ 
five at billiards after breakfast. You need some 
more o ’ my expert instruction. Besides, billiards 
always seem soothin ’ after heavy head-work—like 
I’ve been doin’ this morain’.” 


Chapter X 


CENTIPEDES HAVE A THOUSAND 
LEGS 


M ORG turned from his solitaire at a low 
tapping on the door of No. 15. It was 
nearly ten o’clock, and Steve had dis¬ 
appeared immediately after the evening meal. 
Morg waited now, still holding suspended the 
card he had drawn from the deck. The tapping 
sounded again, more urgently. 

Morg slipped off his boots and moved noise¬ 
lessly to the door, standing to one side of it, for 
rude persons have been known to shoot through 
doors, on occasion. 

“Who’s it!” he called. 

“Douse the light!” came a low command. 
Morg obeyed, and the darkness masked his puzzled 
face as Steve came in. 

‘ 4 Well?” he queried. 

A match flared up behind Steve’s cupped hands, 
illumining his face. With sight of his expression, 
Morg leaned forward tensely. Then, from out- 

150 


CENTIPEDES 


151 


side the window, came a muffled pop, as if a whip 
had been snapped a little way off; something 
smacked against the inner wall. Instantly, both 
men were flat upon the floor, guns out, crawling 
toward the open window. Cautiously they peered 
out, but up- and down-street the Avenida lay 
quiet in the silvery moonlight. Not a figure moved 
anywhere. They went back to their cots and 
pulled them well out of range of the window. 

“Shouldn’t have struck that match near the 
window!” grunted Steve. “Well, no use worry¬ 
ing. Friend Sniper is probably blocks away by 
now.” 

“If I could just lay hands on one!” gritted 
Morg. “Just for ten seconds!” 

“Maybe we will, later. I’ve been trailing Gor¬ 
man. Shadowed him around the block to that 
little adobe shed in the vacant lot behind the hotel. 
I figured to catch up with him and scare him stiff. 
But Morales met him behind the shed, by appoint¬ 
ment. I was glad I hadn’t alarmed Gorman; the 
interview was highly interesting. 

“Morales is surely under Menendez’ thumb. 
Partly through fear, but mostly because Menendez 
plays on his vanity; promises him an important 
position when the Menendez plan works out. 


152 THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 

Morales swallows that stuff whole. I learned how 
Morales comes to he in a gang that opposes his 
stepfather—something that’s been puzzling me. 
It seems that Morales stumbled upon a part of 
Menendez’ scheme—whatever it is—and Menendez 
took him in to keep Morales from telling Gomez 
what he’d overheard. Menendez made Morales 
believe that Gomez belittles him; promised that 
he’d make Morales a great man. 

“ To-night Gorman ordered Morales—for Me¬ 
nendez—to let us alone. Quiet!” Morg was 
snickering delightedly. “1 nearly laughed at 
that, too. But there’s more. You and I are 
marked for swift ‘ elimination.’ That knife-artist 
was the first move; this ”—he jerked an invisible 
thumb toward the window, but Morg understood 
—“was the second. They figure to get us, one 
way or another. Gorman promised Morales that 
we’d not live many days. He said that centipedes 
have a thousand legs; if they miss one kick there 
will be nine hundred odd others. Oh, they want 
us, Morg!” 

“Which reminds me!” Morg’s laughter died 
suddenly. “Remember the big Indian, Araya? 
One who wanted to pull Menendez’ nose? Well, 
he’s dead!” 


CENTIPEDES 


153 


“What!” Steve forgot his own injunction to 
silence. Araya’s death was hardly surprising; 
Steve himself had foretold it. But, hearing of 
it so patly upon listening to Gorman’s coldblooded 
threats, upon missing death through the window, 
was disturbing. For a fleeting instant Steve 
wondered depressedly if Menendez were really as 
infallible as these events would seem to prove; if 
he, Steve, had met his master at last. Then his 
lips tightened. Before the smoke blew away 
Menendez would know he had fought! 

“Happened this mornin’,” Morg went on. 
“Seems Araya rode out to visit a friend livin’ 
north o’ town, but never got there. This friend, 
ridin’ toward Apacaz, found Araya’s body beside 
the trail, all hacked to pieces by machetes. No 
clues, police say. ’’ 

“Of course not! As Minister of War, doesn’t 
Menendez control the police? It’s an omen, 
Morg! It’s just as Gorman told Morales. All 
their plans—whatever they are—are about fin¬ 
ished. Now, any idiot might know that they 
won’t stand peacefully and let someone upset the 
pot. Not much! From now on you and I are 
scheduled to live a highly interesting life.” 

“Well,” yawned Morg, “what’s to do?” 


154 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“That’s the rub! I don’t know. Wait and 
take things as they come is the only plan I can 
make. Something may pop up to tip their hand 
to us.” 

Morg grinned inwardly as Steve, after an ap¬ 
parently aimless hour of wandering about the 
streets the next afternoon, brought up at the 
Mays’ gate and turned through it. They found 
Mays sitting with Morales in the patio, and 
shortly afterward Estelle joined the men. She 
was in stiff-starched linen skirt and soft crepe 
blouse, the only note of colour about her dress 
the dim blue of ribbons glinting through the sheer 
fabric at shoulders and breast. Her dark hair 
was knotted loosely at the nape of her slim round 
neck—as three men, at least, observed. 

Steve’s mouth tightened when Morales’ eyes 
clung to her—and two men noted Steve’s 
expression. 

Morales rose with the others, but went forward 
to bow over her hand. 

“Senorita,” he explained languishingly, “I 
have call to say that for a few days I must leave 
the capital. It is the sad necessity, but it is to 
inspect a garrison for my stepfather, and I—I 


CENTIPEDES 


155 


am the soldier! I go without the questioning. 
But I shall be desolated until I see you again!’ ’ 

“1 wish you a pleasant journey,’’ replied 
Estelle. Morales waited for her to go on, and 
was visibly disappointed when she did not. He 
turned, gained the entrance of the patio, then 
wheeled to click his heels together and bow again. 

“Hasta la vista! (Until I see you again!)” 
he sighed. 

The air seemed clearer with his going. There 
was easy conversation on varied topics. Steve 
took small part in the talk. He was mulling over 
the tangled affairs into which he had thrust him¬ 
self. More than once, remembering that Mays, as 
his future employer, had equal interest in what¬ 
ever threatened Gomez’ plans, Steve was near to 
telling Mays all that he knew or suspected. But 
each time something within him clapped stopper 
to his tongue. 

The hard-headed business man would find it 
hard to understand such mediaeval schemings as 
Menendez’. If he believed, it would mean a con¬ 
ference with the Dictator, and the vagueness of 
his knowledge made Steve halt at that prospect. 
He knew nothing that Menendez could not easily 
explain, more easily deny in toto. Undoubtedly 


156 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


Gomez’ secret agents had wind of some part of 
what Steve had learned; if Gomez had made no 
move, what could he accomplish by telling? 

Besides, Steve was a lone-hand operator by 
preference. Menendez, he thought, must eventu¬ 
ally overlook a loose end. Steve promised himself 
that he would be prepared to seize it and twist it 
into a noose for Menendez’ neck. Surely Menen¬ 
dez must soon come more into the open in his 
organizing of the Congressmen. 

So Steve kept silence; they turned back to the 
American without having mentioned the conces¬ 
sion or their prospective jobs. Morg’s thoughts 
were evidently upon this feature of the call. 

“I could see you a-studyin’, old-timer,” he 
remarked. ‘‘What’s the answer? Are our jobs- 
to-be in much danger? Just a little while, now, 
an ’ we ’ll be workin ’-men. ’ ’ 

Steve looked long at Morg before he answered. 
Then a slow, entirely boyish smile quirked his 
lip-corners. 

“I think she shouldn’t ride alone so much. 
Guess I ’ll trail along hereafter. ’ ’ 


Chapter XI 

BESIDE TEE TRAIL 


I N the four days that followed—four of the 
happiest of Steve’s whole life—there was no 
move from the Menendezites. Steve’s un¬ 
buttoned shirt and Morg’s lapel-hooked thumb 
were mere matters of form. Steve smiled genially 
upon the world, without inquiring if storms logi¬ 
cally followed calms. In the cool mornings he 
rode out with Estelle upon the twisting trails that 
led through dark stretches of virgin forest upon 
the mountain-sides. Wilfully he forgot the bar¬ 
rier reared high between him and this girl. He 
banished thought of the days that must come, 
when he and Morg would be directing Mays’ work¬ 
men upon the remote concession lands; when the 
girl would be in the States—a memory and no 
more. 

At noon of the fourth day they halted at a tiny 
cabin set in a pocket of red-and-black cliffs beside 
the rocky trail, where great pines and cedars 
made the rough-built hut shrink to the semblance 
157 


158 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


of a doll-house. A yellow cur sniffed inquisi¬ 
tively at their heels as they walked toward the 
door; from the dusky interior a young Indian 
woman with baby upon her hip stared stolidly. 

When Steve asked for food she set out boiled 
rice, with chilis cooked into it, paste of black 
beans, fresh cheese, and smoking, foot-wide 
tortillas. They ate at a rude table outside the 
hut, wooden spoons the only utensils, gourds for 
dishes. 

Then Steve spread the blanket from behind his 
saddle for Estelle’s seat upon the grass and 
sprawled his long body upon the pine needles near 
by to make a cigarette. 

“What is she stewing in that pot?” demanded 
Estelle idly, and Steve rolled over to peer through 
the doorway. 

“Green plantains, at a venture. You’ve eaten 
platdnos? No? Well, green, they’re mighty 
hard on civilized tummies. Ripe, and fried, 
they’re much like Texan ‘pumpkin-yam’ sweet 
potatoes, except for an odd astringency—as if 
they had been sprinkled with vinegar, as our old 
negro cook used to make batter for sweet potato 
pies. Oh, those pies!” 

Estelle, watching the play of sunlight upon his 


BESIDE THE TRAIL 


159 


coppery hair, smiled in motherly fashion, as if she 
were years his senior. In that moment he looked 
like a great boy. 

4 ‘I’d almost face all the perils the great and 
sovereign State of Texas holds over my head to 
reach one of Mammy Chloe’s ‘crablanders,’ or 
potato custards,” grinned Steve. 

4 4 You want to go back—want it tremendously, 
don’t you?” she asked, suddenly sobered. 

44 I came near saying that I’d cheerfully risk my 
life. But I’ve risked that so many times for so 
much less that the statement would be inadequate. 
Yes, I’d gladly give everything I own in the world 
to wipe that charge off the books—the ranch, 
which has undoubtedly run to seed with nobody 
looking after it; whatever money’s in bank at 
Saylor City. That alone should be several thou¬ 
sands, for dad kept a heavy drawing-account (he 
was one of the bank-directors) and I never drew 
a cent of it. ’ ’ 

44 It’s dreadful to have that hanging over your 
head. If you could get in touch with a good 
lawyer he might investigate—put detectives on 
the case, or—or something.” 

44 I’ve thought of a thousand schemes,” Steve 
admitted. 4 4 Thought of going back under an 


160 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


assumed name, even, to try to do something. But 
that reward complicates matters. It has put men 
on the look-out who wouldn’t turn aside to catch 
the ordinary *wanted man.’ I’m on the Pinker¬ 
tons’ list, and it’s their claim that almost every 
man who skips comes back into their hands. At 
this distance it would be difficult to impress a 
reputable lawyer with the justice of my case, and 
any but the best would be worse than none at all. 

“I’m at wits’ end, but desperate enough to try 
almost anything—a trip overland through Mex¬ 
ico and a sneak across the border; something. 
More than anything in the world—more than ever 
before—I want back my rightful place in life.” 

She leaned forward impulsively, the violet eyes 
pitying, very tender. His back was toward her as 
he lay watching the trail, a creamy ribbon un¬ 
wound through aisles between pines and cedars. 
Her lips had parted to speak, and she might have 
said almost anything, for, when a trio of Indians 
filed around a clump of bushes, she was suddenly 
conscious that she did not know what she had 
intended to say to this man whose stiff-held, head 
showed so much of misery proudly borne. 

Discovery of her nearness to sentiment filled 
her with something like panic. She rose instantly 


BESIDE THE TRAIL 


161 


and declared herself fit for more riding. Steve 
saddled the animals and lifted her into the saddle, 
noting the change in her manner. So they rode 
away from the cabin, and rather silently let the 
animals choose their own gait upon the trail. 

To Steve, watching her covertly, Estelle seemed 
half-boy, half-girl. But when, a little later, in the 
grip of his own musings he had forgotten to look 
at her, then turned suddenly, he surprised her 
regarding him steadily, in her grave eyes the 
thoughtful probing of a woman. 

The animals splashed through a shallow 
mountain-brook, and, coming out, jogged for a 
mile through a windfall of pines. Steve reined in 
suddenly and showed her, coiled beside the trail, 
a fat toboba- snake. 

“Is it venomousf” she asked, staring with 
loathing at the moveless reptile. 

“About the same as a rattler. The native 
bitten by one usually dies. Gun handy V 9 

She drew her little automatic from a habit- 
pocket. 

“Drill him!” grinned Steve, and she took care¬ 
ful aim and pulled trigger. 

“Missed!” she cried vexedly. The toboba shot 
out of its coil and darted toward the undergrowth, 


162 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


with Estelle pumping shots as fast as she could 
work the automatic. But a racing snake is as 
elusive a target as a floating bottle; though her 
bullets kicked dust over the reptile, it would have 
gained the brush unharmed. Steve’s hand 
flashed inside his shirt and the long Colt—its roar 
deafening after the snapping report of the little 
.32—banged twice. The toboba stopped suddenly 
—in three sections that writhed individually. 

“Splendid!” cried the girl generously. “If 
ever you point that gun at me, Mr. Lawhorn, I ’ll 
emulate Davy Crockett’s coon—I’ll just come 
down! ’ ’ 

Steve cleaned his gun as they jogged on toward 
the capital. He reloaded it from the cartridges 
in his alforja, gave it a final affectionate polish¬ 
ing, and reholstered it, Estelle watching inter¬ 
estedly. When he wiped his hands and reached 
for Durham and papers, she hesitated, reddening 
slightly, and stared straight ahead between the 
mare’s ears. 

“You—forgot to button your shirt,” she in¬ 
formed him. 

Steve shot a keen glance at her pink profile, 
started to explain, then changed his mind. 

“Thank you, so I did,” he replied in matter- 


BESIDE THE TRAIL 163 

of-fact tone, then secured the three buttons usu¬ 
ally left idle. 

For a half-dozen miles they rode silently, and 
came, stirrup to stirrup, into the less wild region 
lying about the capital. On either side of the 
dusty trail, now assuming the width, if not the 
smoothness, of a road, were tiny patches of maize, 
sugar-cane, plantains, bananas, and red-berried 
coffee. Men and women working in the little 
fields straightened to watch the pair ride by; 
sometimes waved greeting. 

Steve pulled up finally, Estelle following his 
example, and dismounted to tighten their cinches. 
When he had hauled taut the latigo on Estelle’s 
saddle he turned to those of his own. As he fin¬ 
ished, Estelle clapped spurs to the mare and was 
gone at a gallop. It was the usual ending to their 
day’s ride—the breakneck race that ended always 
with Paloma’s pink nose just even with the flar¬ 
ing nostrils of the mare. 

Steve swung up with a smile. Paloma could 
overtake any horse he had ever seen in the repub¬ 
lics, so he settled himself deliberately in the big 
Texan hull and let the mula gain speed in her own 
way. Estelle was fifty yards ahead now, out of 
sight around a curve in the trail. Paloma’s 


164 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


single-foot, while no less smooth, was increasing 
marvellously in speed in a dozen strides. Then, 
before they had reached the cedars marking the 
elbow in the trail, a man jumped into the track, 
waving frantically. 

Steve pulled up Paloma abruptly. The man 
was no resident of the vicinity; so much was evi¬ 
dent at a glance. He wore cheap, European-style 
clothing, with shoes, and his yellow skin showed 
no signs of exposure to wind or sun. He was a 
city-dweller, though farther from the haunts of 
such than one was usually seen. 

“What is it?” snapped Steve. “Why do you 
leap like an imbecile into the path?” 

“I had to halt you, senor!” the man gasped, 
“even at risk of being trampled.” 

Steve regarded the puffy features with dis¬ 
favour. While he delayed here Estelle was get¬ 
ting far ahead. The man glanced up, then down 
again. There was a vulpine slyness in the 
shifty black eyes that Steve found anything but 
pleasing. 

“Well, speak!” 

“I but get my breath, senor! It is a message.” 

“A message from whom?” 

“From the General, senor; of a truth.” 


BESIDE THE TRAIL 165 

“Name of a name!’’ Steve exploded. ‘‘What 
general, tontoV 9 

“ General Faraday. He says—let me think: for 
an instant- Ah! I have it now. For a mo¬ 
ment I feared I had forgotten. He says- 

But who comes yonder on the trail ?” 

Innocently Steve turned his head. But a swift 
motion of the man’s hand jerked him to conscious¬ 
ness of the ancient wile. He whirled back and 
saw a revolver come from under the man’s coat. 
Steve snatched at his own gun-butt, forgetting the 
buttoned shirt that blocked his hand. But, while 
he clawed at the buttons, his right foot shot up 
and caught the would-be assassin under the chin. 
A rustle in the bushes behind him sent his rowels 
deep into Paloma’s flanks; the mula hurtled for¬ 
ward in a giant leap as a roar came from the 
thicket and slugs whined through the air. 

Flat along Paloma’s neck, Steve finally got out 
his Colt and emptied it at random into the bushes 
from which still projected a smoke-tipped gun- 
barrel. There were shrieks from the bushes, but 
whether of pain or baffled rage Steve could not 
tell. He sent Paloma racing down the trail, 
swung around the bend while clawing at the 
alforja that held his cartridges. 


166 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


There was a mad drumming of hoofs from 
ahead, then Estelle jerked her mare to a sliding 
stop. Steve was dimly conscious that her hat 
was gone, her hair shaken in soft, dusky masses 
about her shoulders, her violet eyes blazing. Her 
face shone paper-white, save for twin scarlet 
patches upon the cheekbones. 

i ‘What is it?” she cried. “What is it?” 

“Nothing. Nothing much, that is,” he smiled, 
straightening. His brain began to function 
again, and the first thought that came to him— 
after realization that he had never seen her more 
beautiful—was that this ambuscade marked the 
end of their rides. The men who had planned 
this coldblooded attempt at murder would hardly 
hesitate from fear of killing a woman. But he 
wished to spare her unnecessary alarm. 

“Some idiots were hunting too close to the 
road,” he went on, with a happy inspiration. 
“They didn’t miss us a—hundred feet, and poor 
old Paloma thought she was at war once more. 
She got the bit in her teeth and started straight 
for Panama. Thought she’d be safe across the 
Canal, I reckon.” 

He laughed with fair heartiness, but she was 
looking him over swiftly, as if in search of 


BESIDE THE TRAIL 


167 


wounds, and no trace of a smile loosened lier tight- 
held lips. Suddenly he saw that her automatic 
was in her right hand. 

“Is it loaded?” he asked, and she nodded. 

“I loaded it a minute ago, down the trail, be¬ 
fore I came back.’ 9 

“Better put the safety on, then,” he suggested. 
She obeyed mechanically. 

Steve had smuggled his Colt into the right- 
hand saddlebag, shielding his movements from 
her by Paloma’s bulk. He straightened his hat 
and pushed Paloma up beside the mare. Gently 
he took the pistol from her hand, dropped it into 
her habit-pocket, and held the hand in his own for 
a moment. 

“You’re the bravest, finest girl I’ve ever 
known, ’ ’ he said softly. ‘ 1 Never in all my life will 
I forget how you came back into the face of dan¬ 
ger you couldn’t see—to help a friend. No one 
could have done more.” 

For an instant they stared deep into each 
other’s eyes, then she snatched away her hand 
and began twisting up her fallen hair. Farther 
down the trail Steve leaned from the saddle and 
scooped up her hat. Then they jogged on toward 
the capital. 


168 


THE TEAIL TO APACAZ 


“Reckon I should make a kick to someone abont 
those idiots shooting so near the trail,” said Steve 
at last, when the red-tiled roofs of Apacaz glowed 
ahead of them. “But—it would probably have no 
effect, so I suppose I’ll end by saying nothing.” 

“Does that mean that I’m to be—discreet 
also ? ’ ’ Estelle’s voice held an odd inflection that 
twisted his eyes to her swiftly. 

“Why, nothing will be gained by talking, do 
you think?” was all that he could find by way of 
reply. 

“No-o, I—suppose you’re right.” 

But as they drew rein before her gate she faced 
him with a shadowy, mischievous smile. 

“Good-evening, Mr. Lawhom,” she said mock¬ 
ingly. “I wouldn’t have said anything—about 
those buttons, I mean—if I had understood why 
you leave your shirt open.” 

The mare disappeared under the archway in a 
spurt of gravel, leaving Steve to fumble awk¬ 
wardly with a shirt-button dangling from a shred 
of silk. 

“She knew I was lying all the time,” he mut¬ 
tered helplessly. “She knew. She knew.” 

He was still grinning foolishly when Paloma 
turned into the stable-yard of the American and 
he dismounted. 


Chapter XII 
“HEART OF MINE!" 

M ORG CONNOR was an observant young 
man, but be owned also the precious 
quality of discretion. So he said very 
little while Steve ate comida in intermittent pe¬ 
riods of smiling taciturnity and feverish loqua¬ 
city. But, no matter how wordily Steve dis¬ 
coursed, there was no mention of the attack of the 
afternoon. Somehow, he could not bring himself 
to share with anyone the picture of Estelle, white¬ 
faced, starry-eyed, not even with Morg. 

Morg sat facing the rear door. Near the end 
of the meal he frowned suddenly, eyed his com¬ 
panion uncertainly, then scowled at the door 
again. 

“There’s that dam’ kid from the Stars again!” 
Steve turned and saw the foxy-faced muchacho 
who served Carlotta as messenger. 

“Say, Steve,’’ began Morg hesitantly, “you’re 
past twenty-one an’ you got most o’ your growth. 
I don’t like to butt in like a know-it-all, which 

169 


170 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


Lord knows I ain’t. But—Carlotta’s plain she- 
devil ; you said it first night we saw her. Sure’s 
death an’ taxes, you’ll mbsey down there until 
you meet Mr. Serious Trouble face-to-face!” 

‘ ‘Nonsense! I know what she is and I’m not 
forgetting it a minute. But she’s on the inside so 
far as politics go, and every so often she bubbles 
over. She can tell me things I can’t find out 
otherwise. ’ ’ 

The boy padded noiselessly over to whisper in 
Steve’s ear. 

“Carlotta must see you within the hour! She 
has something to tell you of the very greatest 
importance. But come to the alley-door and 
climb the stair to the second floor. Carlotta says 
you must not enter the cafe this night! ’ ’ 

Steve heeded only the first half of the message; 
his mind was busy with the train of thought 
Morg’s disapproving speech had evoked. It was 
true that he had carried on a mock-flirtation— 
which grew more serious, daily, on Carlotta’s side 
—with the fiery daughter of old Mendoza; had 
learned some details of the movements of the men 
he watched. Too, he expected to learn more than 
she had told him thus far, for little that occurred 
in Apacaz, in Flores, failed eventually to reach 


“HEART OF MINE!” 171 

Carlotta. But if he went to her now it meant 
that he would probably miss seeing Estelle. Yet, 
if he did not go, Carlotta would regard it as a 
slap in the face. 

Steve swore inwardly. Man-like, he began to 
regret ever having seen Carlotta. He despised 
the weakness in him that made him dread Car¬ 
lotta’s enmity; but still, he did shrink from hav¬ 
ing her turn against him. He had enemies enough 
now. Carlotta was capable of exactly anything 
while attempting to avenge a fancied insult, at no 
matter what cost to herself. 

“All right,” he told the boy, “Ill come. But 
say to her that I can stay but a moment to-night; 
I have a—a most important engagement.” 

He scowled down at his cofFee-cup, while Morg 
watched with patent disapproval. 

“You ought to be ashamed o’ yourself!” ex¬ 
ploded Morg suddenly. Steve coloured hotly, 
and his lips parted for an angry retort. Then he 
moved his big shoulders embarrassedly. 

“Well, I am,” he admitted. “There are some 
detective-methods I don’t fancy, even though 
they’re mines of information. To-night’s the last 
time I pump Carlotta. I feel like a rotter when 
I go down there and let Carlotta roll her eyes at 


172 THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 

me like a dying calf, then turn to decent folk like 
Mays.” 

With memory of Estelle as his standard of com¬ 
parison, it was not surprising that Carlotta should 
not receive her dues. Thought of Carlotta nau¬ 
seated Steve now. He got up and jammed his 
hat over one eye, went sourly through the hotel 
to the Avenida. 

The cafe was filling with men, even at this early 
hour. Steve halted in the doorway for a mo¬ 
ment—he had forgotten that Carlotta was to be 
in the living-quarters overhead—and looked down 
the room. There were many young army officers, 
with their civilian friends, at the tables; all were 
drinking steadily, but with less talk than usual. 
Then Steve stepped over the threshold. 

The moment he stood inside he felt something 
queerly strained in the atmosphere. Dead silence 
greeted him; many eyes were raised furtively 
to the tall figure, then dropped instantly, only to 
be lifted again in covert glances. Belligerently 
Steve looked from face to face, standing with 
thumb hooked in coat-lapel. But, save for these 
rolling black eyes, there was no move anywhere. 
Finding no familiar faces, nor any overt threat, 
Steve walked deliberately down the aisle and 


“HEART OF MINE!” 173 

took a chair in a corner, where his back was 
against a solid wall. 

He wondered momentarily where Carlotta could 
be, then remembered what the boy had said. He 
gave over his impulse to go and find her; un¬ 
doubtedly she would come in after a bit. 

As he sat there, smoking inscrutably and draw¬ 
ing circles on the table-top with his limonada- 
glass, he felt those curious glances trained upon 
him. The talk was resumed after a while, but in 
lower tones. Suddenly it was hushed entirely. 
Looking quickly about for explanation, Steve saw 
Carlotta in the rear doorway; her eyes were fixed 
upon him with something very near horror; the 
smooth ivory of her cheeks shone curiously pallid; 
her scarlet underlip was caught between her teeth. 

Steve stared absently. Framed in the black 
rectangle, the girl made a lovely picture. The 
Spanish dancer’s costume was discarded to-night; 
she wore an ivory satin evening gown, with 
creamy lace at the loose sleeves and shoulders. 
It was cut daringly low, and the skirt descended 
only to her bare, dimpled knees. Her rolled- 
down stockings were of creamy silk, her pumps 
of buckskin. There were audible sighs through¬ 
out the room as many eyes turned covetously upon 


174 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


the slim, uncorseted figure. But suddenly she re¬ 
covered her poise; she smiled brilliantly at Steve, 
and moved over to his table as if he were merely 
a chance-met acquaintance. Again Steve felt the 
myriad eyes upon him. 

Carlotta took a chair and at first glanced idly 
about the room, her expression one of almost 
ennui ’d casualness. Her cheeks were flushed 
now, and Steve, staring without seeming to, saw 
a throat-pulse hammering madly. 

“ There are many here to-night/’ remarked 
Carlotta, in a clear, level voice that carried to the 
other tables round about. Then suddenly she 
lowered her tone until none but Steve could hear; 
put her hand over her lips as if to pat back a 
yawn. “You must go instantly! You should not 
have come! Did not that imbecile boy tell you 
to come to the alley door ? ’ 9 

“Why, yes, I believe so.” Then he whispered 
also. “Why?” 

“A quarrel will be made with you here! One 
man will face you openly, then a general uproar, 
and—a knife from behind! Why did you not 
heed my warning ? 9 9 

Steve’s eyes were beginning to glow. He 
leaned back comfortably, glancing over the men 


“HEART OF MINE!” 


175 


at the tables near by. He saw beyond these a 
group of army officers at a big table by the street 
door with heads together. Here, he fancied, the 
trouble brewed. He answered Carlotta without 
removing his eyes from this coterie. 

“Why, I reckon I didn’t think,” he drawled. 
“Who is this coming?” 

“Captain Morazan. A dangerous man; most 
noted duellist in the army! He-” 

The stocky, ape-faced hussar had swayed down 
the aisle to their table. He reeked of liquor, and 
his tiny, sullen black eyes were red-veined. He 
leaned upon their table, ignoring Steve, and 
stared sullenly down at Carlotta. Steve shot a 
swift glance at the table Morazan had quitted; the 
other officers waited, almost rigid. 

“Dulcita mio” grunted Morazan, “we ask you 
to dance for us—to sit at our table. Some of my 
comrades, seeing you sit night after night, never 
dancing, are saying that no more are you the 
6 Flower of Flores’; that now are you turned to¬ 
ward—foreigners. 1 do not believe this. Dance 
for us, Carlotta—for me!” 

For an instant Carlotta glared felinely at the 
bescarred, brutal face. Steve had heard the thick 
voice, but his eyes were roving. Morazan was 



176 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


trying to badger the American into a demonstra¬ 
tion through Carlotta; while he faced Steve, some¬ 
one else, from behind- Steve found what he 

sought. At a table behind Carlotta were three 
men, in the ordinary garb of middle-class natives, 
but every one of the trio—as nervously rigid, 
they seemed, as the officers at Morazan’s table— 
wore a dagger at his belt. 

Suddenly Carlotta laughed up coquettishly at 
Morazan; reached out and patted his hand. 

“Captain Morazan is more than my good 
friend; he is my champion!” she said lightly. 
* 6 To show my gratitude to him, to-morrow night I 
shall dance—for his sole pleasure—upon that 
largest table yonder; dance as even Carlotta of 
the Stars has never danced! I shall wear—but 
why speak of little things!—a rose in my hair; 
two veils; perhaps —perhaps only one! Ah, 
Capitan, mio, I promise you such a dance as will 
make your blood race as never aguardiente could 
do! To-night I am—tired. ’ ’ 

“To-morrow is not to-night!” persisted Mo¬ 
razan, his little eyes smouldering. “Dance 
now!” 

“I am too tired; I would dance poorly,” smiled 
Carlotta, still desperately striving to stave off 


‘‘HEART OF MINE!” 177 

the disaster she sensed. “To-morrow night, 
Capitan mio.” 

“I said to-night!” snarled Morazan, and shot 
out a hand that clutched her shoulder. 

As Carlotta jerked backward his clawing fingers 
tore the flimsy satin from shoulders and breasts. 
Steve had watched, not only Morazan, but the 
army officers—who had risen and edged half¬ 
way down the room to listen—and the trio at the 
table behind. Carlotta screamed shrilly, not in 
fear, but in deadly rage at being so handled. 
Her nails raked Morazan’s face twice, then Steve 
was upon his feet. As he rose he swung his 
heavy chair sideways, and it turned in his hand, 
hurtled through the air. 

The uncouth missile caught two of the dagger- 
men as they leaped up and whipped out their 
weapons. They went down like ten-pins as the 
chair crashed across their faces, carrying down 
the third man with them. Without glancing at 
them, Steve smashed his fist against Morazan *s 
chin, and the captain skated backward into a 
table, upsetting it. The blow had saved Morazan 
from worse, for, as Steve struck, so did Carlotta— 
a lightning upthrust with the stiletto whipped 
from her torn camisole. 


178 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


The room was in an nproar. Morazan’s com¬ 
panions were leaping forward, tugging at revol¬ 
vers and sabre-hilts. The greenish war-flame 
filmed Steve’s eyes; his Colt was out, and before 
that big figure all paused. His reputation for 
deadly gunplay was known from end to end of 
the Six Republics and that black muzzle seemed 
to menace each man individually. 

44 Who will be the first?” shouted Steve in 
Spanish, leaping into the aisle before them. 
4 4 You are many against one, but—you have heard 
of ‘El Diablo 9 Lawhorn! So will you, perhaps, 
believe me when I say that some of you will die 
before me? Who will be the first?” 

They did know him, and none there felt himself 
fit opponent for the soldier of fortune. He waited 
for an instant, but they stood moveless. Then, 
with one quick glance behind, where two knife- 
men lay unconscious and the third had felt a soul¬ 
ful urge to simulate the state, Steve backed to¬ 
ward the rear door, the gun-muzzle moving in a 
slow arc that covered all the room. 

As he disappeared through the opening the spell 
was broken. Brandishing sabres and revolvers, 
they sprang toward the door. Then a spit of 
flame stabbed the darkness of the back room; one 


“HEART OF MINE!” 


179 


of the big chandeliers that lit the cafe smashed 
down upon their heads, the chain that held it 
severed. They surged backward, and Carlotta, 
recovering Steve’s hat, darted out to him. 

Steve was already in the alley, and he took the 
Stetson from her without words. She seized his 
arm and hurried him toward the side-street. 

“You must go!” she cried tensely. “Away 
from Apacaz! Out of Flores! Mount that great 
mula to-night and ride fast for Guatemala! Men- 
endez has said that you must die, and smiled as 
he said it. That is the same as if another man had 
sworn by all the saints, for he smiles not often, 
that devil!” 

“Pm not going!” Steve assured her grimly. 
“Here I stay. Menendez can’t drive me out un¬ 
less he uses the whole army for the job—and he 
daren’t do that.” 

“But I tell you it is death to stay, even until to¬ 
morrow! You were near to dying on the trail 
to-day. Two days have they watched you, but 
always the Americana was between you and the 
rifle-muzzles. Only the saints saved you from 
Escamilla to-day!” 

Steve halted under the trees on the sidewalk- 
edge to look up and down the quiet street. He 


180 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


had small fear that any of the crowd in the cafe 
would follow him-into the darkness. Carlotta 
clung to his arm, trembling. 

“How do you know of this afternoonf” asked 
Steve curiously. 

“Oh, that fool, Rafael Escamilla, is in love with 
me. He is not like you, Red One with heart of 
stone! He would kneel and place my foot upon 
his head—if I should let him. Menendez ordered 
him to see that you died upon the trail. So, when 
he failed, he feared to return to his master and 
confess his clumsiness. He came to ask me to fly 
with him to Guatemala. I laughed, and he told 
me everything. Then I laughed again and told 
him he had best go. He leaped upon his horse 
and galloped like a madman toward the north. 

“Rafael’s horse is swift, but I think that he will 
not reach Guatemala. Menendez’ arm is long, 
and for the tool that slips he has nothing but 
death. Rafael told me, also, of this plan to kill 
you to-night, to be used if he missed on the trail. 
Rafael learned that Menendez trusted him not al¬ 
together. That is not Menendez’ way. He told 
Rafael that unless you died upon the trail Rafael 
would himself be killed, but all the time Menen¬ 
dez was making other plans. 


“HEART OF MINE!” 


181 


“Since you have come safely through these two 
attacks another blow will he struck soon—one 
that must surely bring about your death. What 
it is Rafael did not know. He swore to me that 
he did not, and I believe that he spoke truth. 
When it will fall none can say—to-morrow, the 
next day, even to-night. Quien sale? But it 
will come! And if it should fail, why, there will 
be other plans made. Because I care for you so 
very much, Ste-eve, I say that you must leave 
Apacaz now! Ride hard for Guatemala! ’’ 

“Suppose I should tell Gomez that Menendez 
brews trouble for him?” said Steve slowly. 
“What then?” 

“Gomez would not believe!” retorted Carlotta 
scornfully. “He trusts Menendez not at all, but 
he does trust his clumsy secret police. He thinks 
that they see and hear everything. Gomez would 
only laugh at you, because the police would say— 
I know each blundering thickhead of them—that 
you spoke lies. This they would swear to hide 
their own stupidity. Menendez would say smil¬ 
ing that you had dreamed. No, you could not con¬ 
vince Gomez, Ste-eve, for you could only say, 
‘1 think/ when he asked for proof—when Menen¬ 
dez demanded it. 


182 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“But, if Gomez should believe—should im¬ 
prison Menendez because of his suspicions—then 
all the aristocrats would rise against the Dicta¬ 
tor; perhaps half the army. Gomez knows all 
this; he dares not touch Menendez. No! You 

must go, and—and if—if you should ask- 

Why, I ride well, Ste-eve!” 

“I’m not going!’’ Steve repeated flatly. A ray 
of moonlight filtered through the foliage above 
them, and he saw her face whiten with the pallor 
of honest fear. 

She was a queer mixture of hardihood and 
timidity; of desperate boldness and equally des¬ 
perate fearfulness. To one of her superstitious 
mind, her effervescent temper, such an one as 
Menendez—cold, implacable, cleaving relentlessly 
to the line of his planned progress without re¬ 
gard for obstacles—typed almost a formidable 
evil spirit. Where flaming wrath would not have 
touched her imagination, Menendez’ repressed 
deadliness chilled Carlotta to panic. 

“You must go! I tell you that Menendez is a 
devil! He has but played with you before. Now 
he is in deadly earnest. Oh, if you but knew of 
some of the things he has done to men who balked 
him!” 


“HEART OF MINE!” 


183 


“I’m grateful for what you’ve told me,” 
smiled Steve. “I’ll be on the watch for that 
‘sure blow.’ But here I stay until my business 
is finished. Tell me,” he demanded suddenly, 
“when Congress meets how will the Congressmen 
vote on the great oil-concession? Will Gaylord 
win then, as he has boasted?” 

“It is rumoured that a surprise awaits the 
Dictator.” She shrugged indifferently. “I have 
heard no more. But what matter? Not ten men 
in all Flores care which Americano gets the con¬ 
cession. This other thing grips my heart; your 
life is in danger, but you—you think only of 
business! 

“You will not go?” 

He shook his head, and suddenly she threw her 
arms about his neck and clung fiercely. As Steve 
groped for her hands to loosen them, a little 
group rounded the corner of the cafe-building, 
bound for the Plaza. Estelle, with Tommy Har¬ 
rison, was in the van; Mays and Forster Gaylord 
walked a few paces behind. Neither Carlotta 
nor Steve heard them approaching. 

Estelle did not at first recognize the dim shapes 
beneath the tree, but Carlotta’s low sobbing star¬ 
tled her as she came abreast the engrossed pair. 


184 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“Ste-eve! Ste-eve! Mi corazon! (My heart!)” 
cried Carlotta. Estelle started violently; then, 
having seen, she hastened on. 

Steve, in the grip of a cold wrath that held much 
of despair, pulled Carlotta’s arms down abruptly 
and strode grimly away through the darkness. 

At eleven Morg, coming blithely in from an 
evening with Faraday, halted in the doorway of 
No. 15. Steve sat in darkness beside the window, 
staring fixedly out into the starry sky above the 
town’s roofs. There was that in the set of the 
silhouetted shoulders that choked the light re¬ 
mark on Morg’s lips. 

“Somethin’ wrong, Steve?” he asked quietly, 
and Steve replied without turning. 

“I played the fool to-night. Estelle saw Car¬ 
lotta ’s arms around my neck. Go to bed, old man. 
You can’t do anything.” 


Chapter XIII 

EFFICIENT MANHANDLING 


M ORG was sympathetically silent as they 
sat at a gloomy breakfast next morning. 
When Steve turned toward the bar¬ 
room afterward, Morg followed only with hesi¬ 
tation. Steve went straight through and out upon 
the street, and Morg let him go, then sat down to 
shake his head helplessly. 

Steve had no objective. He stalked sombrely 
upstreet to the Plaza, heedless of all about him. 
Round and round the sidwalk skirting the Plaza 
he tramped, his mind busy with a grist of unpleas¬ 
ant thought. He was reaping the effect of the 
halcyon days with Estelle. As unseeingly he 
paced the Plaza’s circuit, there seemed two sides 
to his brain. One was busied with attempts to 
formulate explanations which would show Estelle 
the truth of his relations with Carlotta, while in 
the other side was marshalled the array of events 
since first he had seen her upon the hilltop. 

He knew that he valued this girPs good opinion 
185 


186 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


more, almost, than anything in the world; ad¬ 
mitted, also, that he had been working at twenty 
crazy schemes to bring about restoration to his 
old place in life, and so give him the right to ask 
a certain question. Now he had come to the end 
of dreaming; his rickety castles of Spain had 
tumbled. 

“Seventy-seven kinds of fool I’ve been!” he 
told himself aloud. “I never had the ghost of a 
chance; I was just dreaming with my eyes wide 
open.” 

He looked up—into the eyes of Morales, who 
stood in a path watching the big American in¬ 
tently. The little Colonel was magnificent this 
morning in black and silver hussar uniform, with 
glittering sabre-scabbard and pearl-handled 
revolver. 

Steve would have ignored Morales. Sight of 
him brought home the fact that, even if he had 
found explanations promising to clear up that 
scene with Carlotta, there would be small chance 
of delivering them. Harrison and Morales would 
always be at Estelle ’s elbow. The reminder 
changed some part of his depression to anger. 
Then Morales stepped out upon the sidewalk, 
squarely in front of Steve. 


EFFICIENT MANHANDLING 187 


“So!” he said threateningly. “Yon have not 
heed my advice to go!” 

A familiar nervous twitching at the back of his 
neck warned Steve of red rage rising. He eyed 
Morales steadily, with lids drooping. 

“From the kindest of desires to spare you I 
have said that you should better go. Only the 
fool lingers where is certain to come—disaster of 
the completest!” He seemed to draw confidence 
from Steve’s continued, misleading silence. “I 
warn you. Go!” 

“What will you do if I stay? Fight me that 
duel with shotguns?” The thickened tone should 
have warned Morales. Steve’s grip upon his 
temper had slipped; the words had slipped out al¬ 
most involuntarily. He laughed harshly, and 
twenty paces away Forster Gaylord, coming along 
a path through the Plaza at his customary aimless 
gait, looked up quickly, then stepped into the 
shelter of a bush and edged nearer, his long face 
not so vacant as usual. 

“Think!” sneered Steve. “If I kill you—and 
I surely will—you can never become the great 
figure they promise you shall be.” 

Morales’ olive skin went suddenly ashy. He 
stared, bulging-eyed, as Steve, who was laughing 


188 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


softly, but with a note that struck Gaylord's ear 
queerly and made the oil-scout hasten to edge 
nearer. Morales seemed transfixed with com¬ 
mingling of fury and fear. To his sensitive Latin 
dignity—as Steve knew—there was no greater 
affront possible than the mockery he was re¬ 
ceiving. Rage mastered even the astonishment 
born of hearing Steve mention matters he had 
believed known only to himself, Menendez, and 
Gorman. 

Spasmodically his fingers flexed, went clawing 
toward revolver-butt. Then he noted the tell-tale 
bulge under Steve’s arm and the hand fell limp at 
his side. 

“I—I will not soil my hands!” he sneered. 
“It is not for the President’s stepson to punish 
an inferior. I laugh at you, as the Senorita 
Mays and I have so often laughed together at 
your boorishness, your ill-bred presumption in ap¬ 
proaching your betters!” 

“Leave her name out of this! Mention her 
again and I’ll forget myself and break you small. 
We stand together in that regard. Neither of us 
has a chance. My record bars me, but I would 
kill you cheerfully with bare hands if I thought 
you had a hope. Make up your mind to that, 


EFFICIENT MANHANDLING 189 


Jose Morales; Presidents stepson or no, she is 
not for yon!” 

“Thou insolent cJiucho!” yapped Morales. He 
jerked out the shiny revolver. 

His hand was caught before the muzzle had 
more than cleared holster-top. He was wiry— 
strong as a woman is strong. But his wrist was 
crushed like a child’s until the revolver dropped 
and was kicked out of reach. His free hand was 
clawing at sabre-hilt when Steve let his dislike 
for the treacherous little dandy possess him. 

Back in the peaceful days at Culver he had been 
favourite pupil of the ex-champion who served as 
boxing-instructor—had been called the greatest 
light-heavyweight in college-circles, good enough 
to make his mark in professional company. Now, 
combining hard-learned rough-and-tumble tech¬ 
nique with scientific glove-craft, there were few 
men who could match him outside the squared cir¬ 
cle. Years of ascetic life in the open had kept the 
big body in trim, so it was a methodically-furious 
fighting-machine that smothered Morales. But 
Gaylord, gaping from his bush, noted instantly 
that Steve’s hands were always open. 

Around and around Morales Steve stepped 
dashingly, using fingertips, elbows, palm-heel, 


190 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


open hand. Within thirty seconds Morales was 
dizzy, half-blinded with trying to evade blows that 
darted in from every angle at once. Cat-and- 
mouse play it was, purely. One ‘‘pulled’’ punch, 
which Steve might have delivered at will, would 
have settled all. But he was venting now his 
dislike of Morales. So he snapped his fingers 
beneath Morales’ nose, then smacked hard 
knuckles against his ribs; pulled his ears, his 
nose, his hair; punched with finger-end the pit of 
Morales’ stomach, and buffeted him open-handed 
upon the neck when he doubled agonizedly; re¬ 
peated the whole performance, with such varia¬ 
tions as he could devise. 

Morales, fairly crying with rage, because he 
understood that he was no more than played with, 
fought back with teeth and nails, but found his 
clumsy efforts evaded always. There was no op¬ 
portunity to draw the sabre, and finally, when he 
ducked away and dashed for the fallen revolver, 
a flashing thrust with the hard heel of a palm 
tumbled him head over heels, unconscious. He 
sprawled, a limp, dishevelled wreck, and Steve 
eyed him briefly, then turned and went grimly 
toward the American. 

With Steve’s departure, Gaylord sauntered 


EFFICIENT MANHANDLING 191 


from his shelter and stared down stolidly at the 
stunned figure. Then, as unconcernedly as if 
Morales had been a dog, Gaylord stepped over 
him and moved at his customary slouching stride 
downstreet, to turn in finally at the Mays’ gate. 
When lie came out again, half an hour later, 
father and daughter possessed an artfully- 
composed account of a brutal, unprovoked maul¬ 
ing, inflicted by Steve upon Morales—over Estelle. 

Howard Mays disbelieved, having an instinc¬ 
tive distrust of Gaylord. But he was too discreet 
to waste words in trying to bring Estelle to his 
way of thinking. 

Estelle’s messenger found Steve sitting dourly 
in the bar-room. Steve tore open the enevelope 
and stared down at the single sheet of olive 
notepaper: 

“Mr. Lawhorn,— Please don’t come again to our 
house and don’t expect me to recognise you on the street. 
If you demand reasons for this action, they will be found 
in your morning’s employment—and last night's. 

“E. M. 

“If you expect me to believe those tales of injuries 
done you, which you rendered so appealingly, you do my 
intelligence great injustice.” 


192 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“Well, that’s that!” said Steve evenly. “I’d 
expected it, but reality is worse than expectation, 
for once.” 

He was already heartily ashamed of the boy’s 
play in the Plaza. But for cuffing the puny 
Morales, he would have had nothing to reproach 
himself for but the use of an indiscreet method 
of gaining information from Carlotta. Now he 
had let rage trick him into a position where it 
was doubtful if he could be of any aid to Mays. 
Gomez would hardly listen to a man who had 
publicly manhandled his stepson. There seemed 
no compensatory feature in the whole situation. 
Steve clapped his hands for the bartender. 

Morg, hurrying in from the street an hour later, 
with uneasiness writ large upon his face, heaved 
a vast sigh of relief at sight of Steve motionless 
at the table. Finding no trace of Steve about the 
capital, he had feared that his partner’s depres¬ 
sion had led him into some foolhardy escapade. 
Now he thought the danger past. 

“Well,” he grinned cheerfully, “li’l blue devils 
all gone?” 

“Shut your damned mouth!” replied Steve 
deliberately, raising bloodshot eyes. 

Morg stumbled over two empty quart bottles 


EFFICIENT MANHANDLING 


193 


and a splintered glass, shot a quick glance at 
Antonio. The fat little bartender raised both 
hands in a resigned gesture, and Morg was pos¬ 
sessed of all he needed to know. 

“Play you some pinochle,” he proposed, art¬ 
fully casual of tone, as first step toward getting 
Steve upstairs and to bed. 

“No, I’m goin’ for-” Steve knit his brows 

ponderously. “What’m I goin’ for? Oh, walk! 
Tha’s it. Keep away! Don’t want company. 
Keep away, damn you!” 

Even Morg, who had seen him consume almost 
unbelievable quantities of liquor on one or two 
history-making occasions, stared at the steadiness 
of Steve’s feet. Only a certain deliberation in 
his movements and the set stare of the eyes—the 
pupils dilated until the whole eye seemed purple- 
black—betrayed his real condition. He walked 
deliberately toward the street door, with Morg 
just behind. 

“Don’t want you,” repeated Steve, pausing in 
the doorway. “ Go by m ’self. ’ ’ 

But Morg trailed him at a distance of half a 
block. Square after square they covered, clear 
to the capital’s outskirts, then by another route 
returned. Passing the Palacio Blanco —the 


194 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


White Palace of Gomez and so the home of Mo¬ 
rales also—Steve looked up at the stately pile 
and laughed harshly. He stumbled slightly on 
the curb of the next street and swayed a little. 
Then, bound fo~ luncheon with Gomez, appeared 
Estelle Mays and her father. 

With a single glance at the scornful-eyed girl 
Morg went grimly after Steve, cursing the ill- 
fortune that had brought them up in time to see. 
He overtook the serene figure and slipped an arm 
through Steve ’s. 

“You dam’ fool!” he said savagely. “Come 
on back to the hotel. You done just about enough 
for one day! ’ ’ 

“I told you,” retorted Steve, enunciating dis¬ 
tinctly, “that I didn’t want company. Now, you 
homely, long-legged, officious, would-be dry nlirse, 
get to hell away and let me alone!” 

“Listen, Steve,” urged Morg soothingly, “let’s 
go back. You ain’t in condition to be wanderin’ 
around. Come on, now!” 

“My condition’s my own affair. Not that I’m 
drunk —as you seem to think. I did have a drink 
or two, but I’m not drunk. Trot, now, and 
leave me alone!” 

So, against his better judgment—for he re- 


EFFICIENT MANHANDLING 195 


alised that Steve’s cargo had only shifted, so to 
say, leaving him capable of physical action, but 
abnormally reckless of mind—Morg watched 
broodingly as Steve turned down a cross-street 
and disappeared. Then he shook his head fore¬ 
bodingly and turned back to the hotel. 


Chapter XIV 

IN WHICH A CALL IS PAID 

T HE idea had come as he walked—nothing 
less than the overmastering impulse to 
force a showdown with Menendez. In 
Steve’s alcoholised brain this seemed the most 
natural move in the world, and he was ready to 
fit action to impulse. 

He entered the side door of the Military 
Academy and climbed a broad stairway to the 
second floor. At the stairhead was a closed door, 
with a brass plate announcing the office of the 
Minister of War. Outside it stood a little in¬ 
fantryman, who made no protest when Steve 
turned the knob. 

Inside, Steve transfixed a dapper young clerk 
by giving his name. The clerk nodded, his black 
eyes bulging, and, still nodding, backed across the 
room to another door. A moment later he 
emerged and beckoned. A reckless little smile 
was lifting Steve’s lip-comers. In a normal mo¬ 
ment he might have been less buoyed-up by pros- 

196 


IN WHICH A CALL IS PAID 197 


pect of snapping his fingers beneath the august 
nose of the Minister, but now he felt a pleasant 
tingling of anticipation. No thought of how this 
interview might atfect his status with Mays came 
to trouble him. 

The walls of the long, high-ceiled room he en¬ 
tered were covered with maps of famous battles, 
with portraits of great generals of the world. 
Upon the tiled floor were rich, dark rugs; the 
furniture was of rosewood. Menendez’ broad 
desk was in a corner, one end of it almost against 
the inner wall. Just beyond the desk, in the same 
wall, hung a pair of heavy velvet portieres, tight- 
drawn, with the coat of arms of Flores above 
them. The Minister’s swivel-chair was between 
the desk and the French window overlooking the 
street. 

Steve’s eyes flickered curiously over all the 
room, marking portieres, walls, floor, furniture. 
He came to the end of Menendez’ desk opposite 
the wall and stood looking down at Menendez, 
who leaned back in his chair with unreadable 
expression. 

“ General Lawhorn?” said Menendez in Eng¬ 
lish. Steve nodded, and for a long moment the 
two men stared appraisingly at each other. 


198 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


Steve admitted to himself that, whatever his 
other characteristics might be, there was no line 
of weakness in Menendez’ heavy, inscrutable 
face; and the thick body promised great physical 
strength as well. 

Menendez motioned courteously to a chair be¬ 
fore the desk, but Steve shook his head. 

“I am here to discuss with you the oil- 
concession Mr. Mays is to be granted at Congress ’ 
next session,” he said, and Menendez nodded 
without change of expression. But Steve, whose 
education in the art of reading men had taught 
him that few develop the control over their hands 
that they exercise over their faces, looked down in 
time to see the Minister’s thick fingers close con¬ 
vulsively about the handle of a bronze letter dag¬ 
ger on the desk. 

‘ ‘ There seems to be—well, irritation over this 
concession,” Steve continued drawlingly. “In 
spite of President Gomez’ statement that Con¬ 
gress will grant Mays the concession, certain in¬ 
dividuals seem to think that the grant won’t be 
made after all.” 

“But why come to me? Any land or mineral 
concession is handled by the Minister for the 
Interior—is a matter between that office, the 


IN WHICH A CALL IS PAID 199 


President, and Congress. I am for War only.” 

“I know. But even the Minister of War is 
sometimes keenly interested in matters outside 
his own department. Sometimes. I came to say 
that I’m greatly interested in this matter—in a 
friendly way. I like Mays; so it would grieve me 
deeply if he should fail to get his grant.’’ 

He shook his head and sighed. He was hugely 
enjoying himself, was Steve. 

“I’d be as pained as if it were my own loss; 
so hurt that I’d feel inclined to—well, take 
steps.” 

“Yes? Of what sort, pray?” Menendez’ 
voice was even, and his raised brows proclaimed 
polite interest, nothing more. But his knuckles 
shone white, Steve observed, from his fierce grip 
upon the paper-cutter. 

“Why, any sort that promised to be effective.” 
The sadness of Steve’s tone was belied, Menendez 
noted, by the mocking glint of his eyes. “Being 
disappointed, ’ ’ Steve went on, in the same melan¬ 
choly tone, “seriously affects me. Often—when 
disappointed—I do things I regret—after those 
who disappoint me are in hospital—or elsewhere.” 

Menendez’ unwavering jade-green eyes were 
probing Steve’s face. 


200 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“Your connection with Mays is—purely altru¬ 
istic, I presume ?” 

“Precisely! For sheer friendliness I intend to 
see that he collects what he’s promised. While 
the connection is all of my making, don’t be mis¬ 
led! I regard it just as seriously as if I drew 
a fat salary for my watchdog services. 

“Now, while we’re discussing the matter so 
freely—and, may I say friendlily?—it’s apropos 
to remark that I understand that certain persons 
would like to see me—removed. More, I know 
the circumstances which determine the rules of 
the contest between us. I know that they dare 
not move officially against me because—•‘well, be¬ 
cause of my loose tongue. I’d gabble, surely, and 
some part of what I’d tell would have effect. ’ ’ 

“If you have—information such as you imply 
why not take it to wherever you conceive it would 
be received?” 

“Now, now, General, you’re asking!” Steve 
met the bluff with reproving grin. “That being 
your question, you answer it. I have my own 
methods, my own plans. You must dig out infor¬ 
mation for yourself—as 1 do. But we digress. 

“Because of my loose tongue these irritated 
players dare not take open steps toward my— 


IN WHICH A CALL IS PAID 201 


what’s the word? Oh, yes! ‘Elimination.’ 
Thanks, General—elimination. Even a duel be¬ 
tween an army officer and myself might evoke 
unpleasant questions from Gomez. So all elimi¬ 
nation must be sub rosa —by tossing knives, 
ambushes beside the trails, and the like. 

“While that procedure makes for a generally 
uncertain and thoroughly interesting existence, in 
so far as the eliminatee is concerned, it also evens 
matters. For the eliminatee is licensed to do as 
much eliminating as anyone else.” 

Menendez’ eyes had never wavered from his 
tormentor’s face. He still leaned back, moveless, 
imperturbable. But the clenched hand upon the 
bronze dagger betrayed the strain by which he 
preserved inscrutability. Now his eyes flickered 
to the portieres on Steve’s left; his hand crept 
along the desk-edge, where was a row of push¬ 
buttons. Steve stared significantly at the creep¬ 
ing hand, and it halted. Then, without removing 
his narrow watch from Menendez, Steve hooked a 
thumb in coat-lapel and stepped swiftly to the 
wall. With his left hand he flung the portieres 
suddenly aside. 

Two little infantrymen almost fell forward into 
the room, their drawn revolvers menacing empty 


202 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


air, surprise making of their swarthy faces mirth- 
provoking masks. Steve waved them back. 

“Vdmos!” he snapped, then, as they scurried 
through the narrow passage behind the portieres, 
he regarded the Minister contemptuously. 

“Old stuff!” he drawled. “I expected better 
of you than that—or this!” 

He came around to Menendez’ side and pressed 
the end desk-button. The chair before the desk— 
that which Menendez had offered Steve—dropped 
through a wooden trap-door cunningly set into 
the tiles of the floor, together with the rug which 
had masked the door. Seconds later came the 
dull crash of the chair striking the bottom of the 
well-like cavity. 

Some of Menendez ’ self-control left him with 
revealment of his Borgian traps. A twitching of 
the thin lips betrayed his rage. 

“Oh, I nearly forgot to inquire. How did the 
Congressmen enjoy the dinner-party last night? 
I heard ”—Steve stressed the word in the hope 
that Menendez might not believe it the whole 
truth, which it was—“that you and Gaylord ban¬ 
queted them royally at your residence. No stub¬ 
born guests, I trust? Everything arranged— 
each actor pat in his lines? 


IN WHICH A CALL IS PAID 203 


“Tell a fella, General,’’ lie drawled, moving to 
half sit npon the desk-end and smile engagingly at 
Menendez. “Do you think you can put it over? 
No spoofin’! Do you think you’ve covered all 
your tracks?” Steve shook his head pityingly. 
“If you only knew! If you knew what 1 know, 
what I have up my sleeve-” 

Menendez tapped viciously upon the desk, with 
a flash of set teeth between thin lips, black brows 
creased, jade-green eyes flaming. 

“Remember one thing, Lawhorn!” he said 
thickly. 1 ‘ Meddlers meet meddlers ’ fates; always 
meet disaster when they interfere with me! You 
are a braggart, mouthing empty words, so I let 
you go now. But when I want you to die you will 
die—suddenly and unpleasantly. There is a rope 
about your neck. When I am ready I shall pull 
that rope!” 

“Surely!” yawned Steve. “I believe that you 
believe all that. That’s the worst of being a little 
tin god in a one-horse country; one gets to over¬ 
estimating his importance. Too much petty dig¬ 
nity; like Bimi, too much ego in your cosmos; 
that’s your trouble, mi General! You regard 
yourself with such ludicrous seriousness. Hurts 
you to be laughed at, doesn’t it? Well, I’m 



204 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


laughing now. I intend to laugh last, also. Mark 
my prophecy. 

“ Your plans will fail. Because of me they will 
fail. I’m gunning for you, and before I’m done 
I’ll hang your hide on the fence. Now I’m going 
to leave you. Best understand that if you, your 
clerk, or anyone else makes a move before I reach 
the street, the fireworks will start. You have 
heard that I seldom miss. Adios, mi General! 
Laughingly, I leave you to envision failure.” 

He bowed mockingly to the distorted-faced 
figure, crossed the room swiftly, and shut the 
hall door behind him, then ran lightly downstairs 
to the street. Behind him the great white build¬ 
ing lay silent as a tomb. So, satisfied that, for 
the instant, Menendez bided, Steve walked briskly 
to the corner and headed for the American. 

For the moment the activity had engrossed him. 
Badgering Menendez had vastly tickled all the 
small boy in Steve, had burned away his ill- 
temper. Even mature reflection could discover 
no fault with his action. He could conceivably 
make Menendez no more implacable, while it was 
barely possible that some of his mysterious hints 
would worry the Minister. 

The liquor’s effect was gone, and as he walked 


IN WHICH A CALL IS PAID 205 


Steve suffered the natural reaction to gloominess 
coming with cold sobriety. He began to think of 
other things—of the bottles he had drained, of 
Morg. 

“Now, I wonder what I said to him?” he mused 
contritely. “With two quarts inside me Pm al¬ 
ways an unpleasant conversationalist. Hope I 
didn’t hurt the old boy’s feelings. Hell! I’ve 
been acting like a kid!” 

Arturo had not seen the Senor Connor since 
noon, so Steve went up to No. 15. He left the 
door unbarred, but set two tin cups from the 
saddlebags one upon the other against the door. 
Then he dropped into a troubled sleep. 

He was sitting, wide-eyed and alert, almost be¬ 
fore the cups ceased clattering. As his eyes 
found Morg in the doorway he lowered his pistol- 
muzzle and yawned. Morg regarded him with 
the sourly-virtuous expression of the man-who- 
stayed-sober, and Steve grinned shamefacedly. 

“Sorry if I was unpleasant this morning, old- 
timer. Hooch always gets me like that, you 
know. I mean, it always has in the past.” 

“Oh!” The monosyllable carried a world 
of sarcasm. “Figurin’ on changin’ brands 
hereafter?” 


206 


THE TEAIL TO APACAZ 


“ Just that! My standard brand hereafter will 
he non-alcoholic. To-day marked trail Vend, 
amigo . It suddenly dawns upon me that I'm 
twenty-seven years old. No kidding! I realised 
awhile ago that I've been forgetting a number of 
things I should have remembered. Here I am, 
needing every ounce of the few brains I own, and 
I act like a kid cowpunch’ hitting town on a 
pay-day." 

“Spill it!" grinned Morg, sitting down upon 
his cot. “I c’n tell by the graveyard tones that 
you’ve went an’ done somethin’ unusual dam’ 
foolish. C’m’on! Tell uncle!" 

So Steve told, while Morg listened with soulful 
grunted oaths. At the end he stared at Steve 
with a mixture of admiration and affectionate 
indignation. 

“You lucky, lucky idiot! Don’t you know that 
by rights you ought to be dead?” 

“You’re right," Steve admitted thoughtfully. 
“But I located Menendez’ weak spot, I think. He 
lets a chance or two slip him—afraid to grab ’em. 
I hope devoutly that I’ll be granted opportunity 
to make him thoroughly regretful that I got safely 
away this morning. But—I’d give a lot to know 
just what’s brewing behind that yellow face. 


IN WHICH A CALL IS PAID 207 

I’ve gone over every detail we know, and the an¬ 
swer remains— x. 

“Well, let’s eat. I’m not hungry—I’m 
starving! ’ ’ 

He was markedly thoughtful during the meal. 
At last he squinted across at Morg over the 
coffee-cups. 

“Is Johnny Peacock still purser of the 
Tillamook?” 

“Was the last time I saw him—two months ago 
in Barrios,” replied Morg, deftly capturing the 
hot milk-pot from Steve’s fingers. “Why?” 

“Because the Tillamook’s due in San Pedro 
to-morrow. She stays two days, loading bananas. 
How’d you like to fire the real opening-gun of our 
war? Ride to San Pedro?” 

“Suits me pretty. But-” 

“Listen. You sneak out to-night and you’ll be 
in ’Pedro to-morrow noon. It’s just fifty miles. 
I want some dope from the States, and if I cable 
from here that cablegram will be in Menendez’ 
hands as soon as it’s filed for sending. So you’ll 
get Johnny to send a radiogram from the Tilla¬ 
mook to the chief of police in New Orleans, ask¬ 
ing what record he has of one Leo Gorman, 
charged with manslaughter, et cetera. See ? Put 


208 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


Johnny’s return address on the radio, and ask 
Johnny to cable you here—as ‘Mr. Morgan’—the 
chief’s reply, wording it so that military snoopers 
in Apacaz, who read the cablegrams for Menendez, 
won’t be able to get the meaning. Understand 
the lay-out?” 

“Sure, but while I’m gone, Steve—I- Oh, 

dammit! You’re rememberin’ what you said up 
in the room, about layin’ off the hooch?” 

“You needn’t worry, Morg,” Steve promised 
quietly. “Not a drop from me!” 


Chapter XV 

MARIA OF TEE (( TOBOBAS yf 


S TEVE reined in Paloma to inspect the 
back-trail, then stared ahead once more. 
It was late afternoon of the second day 
after Morg’s departure for San Pedro. Nothing 
had occurred to occupy Steve in the interval; he 
found himself possessed of a deep restlessness, 
a brooding sense of impending events. With 
hands upon revolver-butts—he was again in trail- 
clothes—he strained his ears for any sound of 
pursuit. None coming, he spurred on. 

As Paloma rounded a curve in the trail Steve 
saw before him an old woman, trudging slowly 
forward. Paloma’s hoofs fell silently upon the 
soft dust, and so they came up behind the ragged 
figure before she heard them. She skipped 
nimbly out of the path, and as she faced him Steve 
straightened abruptly in the saddle. 

In each hand the crone grasped a full-grown 
toboba —not by the neck, just below the triangular 
head, but holding them carelessly by the centre 

209 


210 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 

of the writhing body, so that they had ample play 
for a death-stroke at her bare arms. She cackled 
amusedly when Paloma backed hastily at sight of 
the snakes. 

“Why, your mula fears my pets, senor!” she 
grinned. 

“Well, madre mio,” retorted Steve, “I can’t 
blame her, when I fear also.’ 9 

“They all fear,” she told him, the witch-grin 
widening upon her swarthy, deep-wrinkled face. 
“All but old Maria! She has the power; she was 
born at midnight of Lucky Friday, far out in the 
jungle. The serpents crawled up to play with 
her as she rolled upon the leaves.” 

“But do they never strike you, mother?” 

“Si. Often. As a puppy nips its master’s 
hands. See?” 

She dropped the tobobas at her feet, where they 
coiled slowly and with wicked, swaying heads 
seemed to await her pleasure. She held up her 
skinny arms to show in a dozen places the white 
double-dots of fangs. 

“Their venom has no effect upon Maria,” she 
grinned elfinly, “except, sometimes, to make her 
sleepy for a while.” 

Steve, thinking her a trifle touched of brain, 


MARIA OF THE “TOBOBAS” 


211 


fished a silver peso from his pocket and tossed it 
to the ground beside her. When the crone pushed 
a snake aside to seize the coin, the reptile buried 
its fangs in her bony claw. She ignored the in¬ 
cident, snatching up the peso and hiding it be¬ 
neath her dingy mantilla . 

“Now may the grace of God rest upon you!” 
she mumbled. “You are of the kind of heart. 
But Maria will not take your alms like a common 
beggar, giving nothing in return but empty words. 
Look me in the eyes —in the eyes, senor!” 

She pushed between the sinister coils to Steve’s 
stirrup, brushing aside the grizzled locks upon 
her wrinkled forehead. Her eyes were like none 
that Steve had ever seen in human head. The 
pupils were pearly-grey, their outline that of a 
crouching cat. They dilated and contracted 
rhythmically—with her breathing, he fancied. 

“It is the power of foretelling the future that 
Maria de las Tobohas (Maria of the Tobobas) 
holds , 11 she droned, her voice sounding muffled, as 
if coming from a distance. “For Maria the 
curtain between the Now and the To-Be rolls 

back—rolls back- Sometimes the future 

shows clearly; sometimes dimly.” 

Her claw-like fingers encircled Steve’s wrist. 


212 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“I can see—only a part of what will be yonr 
lot, though I see much that is of your past, 
Esteban, my son! 

“Your friend, the tall man who laughs, has 
been in great danger. He is in danger now, but 
not so much. You, Esteban! Heath stalks be¬ 
side you, with hand ever outstretched to seize! 
Beware of a man with scar upon his cheek—a 
thin man, with blue eyes cold as a ioboba’s. Be¬ 
ware also of rama muerte —the green leaf of 
death! 

“I see two women in your life. One of them 
concerns you but for the moment; the other you 
love and will always love. I see her walking un¬ 
wittingly into peril. You, seeking to save her, 
will be in deadly danger. Death moves always 
about the capital, with finger pointed at you and 
those you know-” 

She dropped his hand, and her head sagged for¬ 
ward. Steve, drawing a long breath, felt oddly 
chilled, as if a dank, cold breeze had touched him. 

“But what holds the future for me, mother?” 
he asked eagerly, “Do I get those things I most 
desire, or does the hand of Death truly close upon 
me?” 

“Much of evil, but much of good, I sense for 


MARIA OF THE “TOBOBAS” 213 

yon,” she mumbled. “It is clouded—clouded 
—I see-” 

There was a frantic drumming of hoofs from 
around the curve ahead. Maria stooped swiftly 
and snatched her tobobas from the ground, was 
gone like a shadow into the jungle beside the 
trail. Steve backed Paloma into the undergrowth 
and jerked both guns. Around the bend came a 
lathered paint-horse, nostrils flaring scarlet, foam 
flecking breast and shoulders. Swaying almost 
to Two-Per-Oent. ’s neck was Morg Connor, paper- 
white of face with reins between his teeth and a 
Colt in each sagging hand. 

Two-Per-Cent. swerved toward his trail-mate 
and halted, gasping. Steve put Paloma along¬ 
side in a bound and caught Morg. He saw that 
Morg’s tattered shirt-front was blood-soaked. 
Morg’s pain-clouded eyes were nearly closed, but 
he essayed a grin. 

4 4 Jumped!” he whispered. 4 4 Menendez’ killers. 
Got—two. They’re—cornin’!” 

Steve slipped from the saddle and lowered 
Morg to the ground. No sound came from the 
east, and Steve thought that the assassins, de¬ 
moralized, perhaps, by Morg’s fierce resistance, 
had given up. Fearfully he examined his partner, 



214 


THE TEAIL TO APACAZ 


finding chest and shoulders and back cut and 
cross-cut by shallow knife-wounds. But the only 
serious hurt was a wide puncture of the left fore¬ 
arm, and this Steve bound tightly. 

The five miles to Apacaz was a long journey for 
a man weakened by loss of blood. An idea came; 
he dug into Morg’s saddlebags and brought out 
a black quart bottle. He could not forbear smil¬ 
ing; trust Morg to have a drop of Scotch for 
emergencies. Morg opened his eyes as the liquor 
trickled down his throat. 

“Feel better, eh?” grunted Steve. “Don’t 
talk. Take it easy while I scout the back-trail 
for your friends.” 

From the eastward curve the San Pedro trail 
lay visible to the ridge, an eighth-mile distant. 
Squatting comfortably, Steve cuddled his Win¬ 
chester and waited. Moments passed, then, with 
a tight-lipped grin, he ran up his sights and aimed 
carefully. Four horses had topped the ridge at 
a gallop. The first two bullets kicked dust at 
their feet; with the third a man slid head first to 
the ground; a horse reared and whirled, then 
crashed down, with the next. For an instant the 
killers milled, while Steve methodically pumped 
his carbine. Then two men jerked their beast 


MARIA OF THE “TOBOBAS” 215 

about and fled tbe way they had come, leaving 
two men and a horse sprawled in the trail. 

**TlfiaVll hold the rats for a while!” opined 
Steve, and went back to Morg. 

Dusk came, then thick darkness that masked 
their snail’s progress toward Apacaz. Many 
halts were necessary and many jolts of the Scotch, 
so that it was well past midnight before Steve 
eased Morg down in the stable-yard of the Ameri¬ 
can. The stable-mo£o was not to be seen, so Steve 
unsaddled and stalled the animals, then picked up 
Morg as if a hundred and seventy-odd pounds 
made a dolFs weight. Half an hour later Dr. 
Gonzales—a fellow guest—looked up smilingly 
from his work. 

“In a week he will be walking; no serious 
wounds. He has a magnificent physique.” 

Steve returned the smile. Old Gonzales was a 
staunch Gomez-man, and Steve’s brief explana¬ 
tion had made an ally of the doctor. 

The booming of the post-office clock awakened 
Steve; he counted six strokes, and wonderingly 
realized that he had slept nearly sixteen hours, 
for outside the window was darkness. He got up 


216 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


and drew the window-curtains, then switched on 
the light and faced Morg, pillow-propped and ap¬ 
parently quite comfortable. 

“I wondered when you’d come to life!” grinned 
Morg. “I been awake an hour, I reckon, but you 
kept on sawin’ wood, so I never waked you.” 

“How do you feel?” 

“Oh, a’ right. Shaky, o’ course. Say, that 
was the dam’dest thing ever happened to me! I 
was bendin’ over a creek to get a drink an’— 
bang! It fairly rained scalp-huntin’ hairpins. I 
yanked a gun, but some bird hit my hand—they 
was all around me—an’ down went the Colt. Be¬ 
fore I could grab it, or pull another, all the cutlery 
in Flores was slicin’ at me, seemed like. I finally 
got out my other gat an’ drilled two clean-centre, 
then broke away an’ straddled Two-Per-Cent.” 

“Good thing I went to meet you, maybe. See 
Johnny Peacock?” 

“Yeh. Same old Johnny. Took the words out 
o’ my mouth, as per usual, when I commenced 
explainin’ what we wanted. Say! Soon’s I men¬ 
tioned Gorman, Johnny opened the history-book; 
seems Gorman’s from San Francisco, same’s 
Johnny. Here’s the dope!” 

The little purser’s tale was of the San Fran- 


MARIA OF THE “TOBOBAS” 


217 


cisco underworld. Five years before Leo Gorman 
had been an uncrowned king—or a ward-boss of 
the ancient, unscrupulous variety, dominant fig¬ 
ure in the corrupt political ring that controlled 
the Pacific Coast metropolis. Then Gorman, in a 
desperate effort to stem a reform-wave that 
threatened to swamp him, had killed a leader of 
the reform-party. Caught red-handed, Gorman 
had been charged with manslaughter and other 
crimes; released only under immense bonds. 

But Gorman’s associates dared not let the 
ward-boss go to trial; Gorman would squeal to 
save himself. So he had been helped to jump his 
bonds and escape into Mexico at Tia Juana. San 
Francisco had heard of him no more. But twenty 
thousand dollars reward had been offered by the 
family of the judge Gorman had slain; the au¬ 
thorities were still eager to lay hands on the 
fugitive. 

“So Johnny says,” concluded Morg, “that the 
thing to do is notify the San Francisco author¬ 
ities. Johnny’s sendin’ a radio to the District 
Attorney for us.” 

“Extradite Gorman, eh?” 

“Nope; somethin’ quicker. Have Gorman de¬ 
ported! Flores, Johnny says, has a deportation 


218 THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 

law same’s the United States. If Gorman’s sent 
to New Orleans under guard, Johnny guarantees 
there’ll be San Francisco detectives on the dock 
a-waitin’ for Gorman. They’d stick a year an’ 
live on coconuts an’ bananas, Johnny swears, to 
lay hooks on that twenty thousand reward.” 

“Good!” Steve was considering all angles of 
the situation. “For this deportation business 
may take time. Well, you did a good day’s work, 
amigo mio —you and Johnny.” 

When the waiter had brought up a tray for 
Morg, Steve went downstairs and made a hearty, 
if solitary, meal. Morg was asleep when he re¬ 
turned, so in the Plaza Steve sat for an hour, oc¬ 
cupied with thoughts which deafened him to the 
band’s shrillest efforts. 

He could see now that it was best that Estelle 
had misunderstood the scene outside the cafe, the 
row with Morales. Given another day in her 
presence and words might have slipped from him 
which he had no right to utter. But these philo¬ 
sophical decisions satisfied only his brain. 

At the entrance of the Plaza, as he turned home¬ 
ward, he walked almost into the little group— 


MARIA OF THE “TOBOBAS” 


219 


Howard Mays, puffing at his cigar; Estelle, with 
a filmy scarf of black lace thrown over head 
and shoulders in the Spanish fashion, between 
the worshipping Tommy and the battered 
Morales, who carried his right arm in a silken 
sling. 

Mays nodded cordially; Tommy Harrison in¬ 
clined his head the fraction of an inch; Morales 
glared like a trodden snake. After one flashing, 
contemptuous glance at the sinister white butts 
at his hips Estelle looked straight through Steve. 
But he stared straight into her face, until she met 
his glance despite herself. In the rays from a 
street lamp he saw an odd, questioning glint re¬ 
place the disdain in her eyes; met it steadily; saw 
it give way to scorn again. Then he was past 
them. As he went there came sound of the girl’s 
light laughter rising above the deeper tones of 
the men. 

It had needed only the sight of her—with 
Tommy’s shining face, and Morales’—to make 
Steve’s sense of loss active instead of passive. 
He was in a dangerous mood just then; he would 
have welcomed such an attack as had been made 
on Morg; he craved action at any odds—the 


220 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


longer the better. But the peaceful, fragrant 
night was empty of overt menace. 

Walking burned away his anger; by the time 
he reached the American’s door he had even made 
a resolve to “carry on” cheerfully; daily to do 
well whatever his hands found to do. He was too 
healthy-minded to brood continuously over his 
troubles, to withdraw himself, like an anchorite 
retreating into a cell to shield his tender soul 
from the world’s touch. He was even whistling 
as he stepped into the bar-room for a creme de 
menthe. 

Antonio set out the drink, and Steve lifted the 
tiny emerald glass to the light. As his eyes 
passed the bar-mirror he noted the reflection of a 
figure in a dusky corner of the room. Staring 
steadily into the mirror, Steve saw the man’s face 
become clear. 

Round, unwinking blue eyes were riveted upon 
Steve; close-set eyes, hard and expressionless as 
twin turquoises. There was something very fa¬ 
miliar about the thin, weather-reddened face, the 
high cheekbones and pointed chin, the gash-like, 
reptilian mouth. Then the man shifted position 
slightly, and a long, white scar gleamed upon the 
red-brown cheek. 


MARIA OF THE “TOBOBAS” 221 

The scar-faced man! Old Maria—whose ac¬ 
count of Morg’s peril had been true—had warned 
Steve to be alert against a blue-eyed man with a 
scar. At the instant the crone’s warning re¬ 
turned to him Steve identified the man. He had 
once seen him pointed out in a Panama City bar. 

“Chihuahua” Johnson! Expatriated Ari¬ 
zonan; citizen of no country; desired of none. 
Professional gunman; killer by instinct; as dan¬ 
gerous always as an angered rattlesnake. 

They stared fixedly at each other through the 
mirror’s medium. Steve’s hand rested lightly 
against the Colt on his left side. Johnson’s 
hands were both beneath the table, and Steve was 
very certain that they gripped gun-butts. The 
killer’s round blue eyes stared unwinkingly. 
Steve drained his drink and walked through the 
door leading into the office; “Chihuahua” sat 
moveless, watching him go. 

Faraday and Morg were playing cribbage as if 
not only their own lives, but the fate of unborn 
generations, depended upon the outcome. Steve 
watched them for a moment, then tilted a chair 
against the wall with back toward them, and 
folded his arms. 

“Say, Steve”—Faraday spoke with suspicious 


222 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


eye upon Morg’s fingers—“I’ll bet a round of 
drinks yo’ can’t guess whom I saw cross the 
Plaza this evening.” 

“Buy the drinks. You saw ‘Chihuahua’ John¬ 
son,” replied Steve, without altering his 
position. 

“How did yo’ know? But never mind! 
What’s that hellion doing here! He was raising 
Cain in Honduras the last I heard of him. Why 
is he in Apacaz?” 

“Ask Menendez—or Stephen Lawhorn. He’s 
imported to abolish me, Bill.” 

“The hell! Would Menendez dare anything so 
open?” 

His question met a harsh laugh from Morg, 
who was staring down at his bandaged arm. 
Steve sat moveless, only the slow tap-tap of finger¬ 
tips upon biceps betraying thought. 

‘ ‘ Menendez ? How is he concerned ? ’ ’ demanded 
Steve at length. “Two Americans —both unde¬ 
sirables—stage a six-gun session. One dies— 
perhaps both. Well, how is that connected with 
the Minister of War?” 

“Hum! Devilishly plausible at that! Ah— 
any plans, Steve ? If—a feeble old man, with one 
foot in the grave, can assist-” 


MAEIA OF THE “TOBOBAS” 223 

They laughed at the old dare-devil’s character¬ 
ization of himself. 

‘ ‘ Thanks, Bill; but I reckon there’s nothing you 
can do just now.” 

The cribbage-players went on with their game, 
while Steve sat silent for a half-hour. Then he 
got up and hauled his alforjas from beneath his 
cot. Whistling preoccupiedly beneath his breath, 
he explored the saddlebags until he had produced 
an oddly-assorted array—a box of cartridges, an 
unopened sack of Durham, needle and thread, a 
small file. Steve took out his pocket-knife and 
fell to work. 

First he snipped the strings from the Durham- 
sack and returned the tobacco to the saddlebag, 
then picked up the file. 

“What’s the idee?” frowned Morg, and Steve 
turned a slow head, still whistling, but audibly 
now. Morg listened puzzledly to the ancient cow- 
land song, “The Old Chisholm Trail,” of which 
every cowboy for generations has known a few 
dozen verses. Steve chanted a stanza: 

Oh, it’s cloudy in the west, a-lookin’ like rain, 

An’ my damned old slicker’s in the wagon again. 

“Why,” said Steve enigmatically, “when she’s 


224 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


cloudy, you never want to forget your slicker, 
cowpunch’. I’m not! 

Sam Bass was born in Indiana, it was his native home, 
An ’ at the age of seventeen young Sam began to roam, 
He first came to Texas, a cowboy for to be; 

A kinder-hearted fella you seldom ever see. 


Chapter XVI 

THROUGH THE SMOKE 


M ORGr waked with a burning desire to 
dress and leap head first into all the 
details of his normal life, only to be 
squelched by Steve. 

“Anyway, I want a drink!” complained Morg, 
when a glance at Steve’s stepfatherly expression 
made it very plain that he had best remain abed. 
“I ain’t had a drop in two days an’ I’m dryer’n 
hell on a Monday momin’. Run down an’ get me 
one, will you, Steve? Just a li’l one—about three 
fingers in a washtub.” 

“What’s all this about drinks?” demanded Bill 
Faraday from the door. 

“He’s the forsakenest rumsoak you ever saw,” 
Steve explained whimsically. “If we’d bunked 
him in the bar-room he’d have stayed abed the 
rest of his life—or the bartender’s.” 

“Well, being from Kentucky,” said Faraday 
judicially, “perhaps I set too high a value on 
bourbon as a tonic. He might have one small 
225 


226 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


snifter, I should say. But—the bar-room is oc¬ 
cupied, Steve. ‘Chihuahua.’ ” 

Morg swore suddenly and very fervently, mak¬ 
ing unmistakable motions of rising. 

“Lie still!” snapped Steve. “You’re not tit to 
get up. Don’t worry, amigo! I’d hate to have 
an ornery snake-in-the-grass like ‘Chihuahua’ 
rub out my mark. ’ ’ 

“He’s chain-lightning on the draw; deadshot 
with either hand, too,” reflected Faraday, to be 
interrupted by a cavernous groan from the bed. 
“What about it, Steve?” 

Steve rocked slowly on his heels and smiled 
genially upon his friend. 

“Bill, if I should start talking now, Christmas 
next wouldn’t write * period’ to my discourse, so 
I won’t begin. But”—his face hardened dash¬ 
ingly—“Menendez has already slapped both 
my cheeks; even the Scriptures don’t command 
one to take more than that! ’ ’ 

“Where you goin’?” demanded Morg uneasily, 
as Steve turned toward the door. 

“Down to get that ‘one small snifter’ for you. 
Lie still! Sit on his head, Bill! He’ll be jerking 
off those bandages and bleeding to death if he 
isn’t watched.” 


THROUGH THE SMOKE 


227 


In spite of his confident bearing in the room 
Steve had no illusions concerning 6 ‘ Chihuahua’ ’ 
Johnson. It might well be that he, Steve, would 
afford “Chihuahua” another notch on the deadly 
.45’s, instead of himself letting out the killer’s 
life. 

These two, conceded the master exponents in 
the tropics of a fast-vanishing art, “the quick- 
draw,” had never had occasion to compare their 
skill. Steve knew himself to be both dazzlingly 
fast and marvellously accurate, so much so that no 
man he had ever met could be called his equal. 
But Faraday had seen both men in action, and 
Bill had seemed dubious, if not wholly pessimistic. 

He stepped inside the bar-room from the patio 
and immediately saw Johnson, standing at the far 
end of the bar with back to the street wall, an 
untouched drink before him. “Chihuahua’s” 
round blue eyes met Steve’s in their customary 
unwinking stare. He neither moved nor spoke 
when Steve halted midway down the long bar to 
order. 

As Antonio set a bottle upon the bar Steve 
brought cigarette papers from a shirt-pocket. 
“Chihuahua” stared unblinkingly for a space, 
then his thin mouth twisted. 


228 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“Hear your partner got all cut up other day,” 
he remarked, the grating voice contemptuous. 

“Why, so he did,” admitted Steve expression¬ 
lessly. “So he did.” 

“Well, mebbe it’ll learn him somethin’.” 

“Meaning—just what?” Steve’s voice was 
very soft. 

* ‘ Chihuahua’s ’ ’ thumbs were hooked in crossed 
cartridge-belts, his elbows turned forward so 
that the stiffly-opened palms were edgewise 
against his stomach. He had but to twist his 
hands the barest fraction of an inch to grip 
revolver-butts. Steve still held the cigarette 
paper in his left hand as he stared frostily. With 
his question his right hand had halted at the shirt- 
pocket, from which dangled the strings of a 
Durham-sack. 

“Meanin’ that imitation bad-men hadn’t ought 
to run loose without their guardeens is along to 
watch ’em,” grinned “Chihuahua.” 

“Why,” drawled Steve, without moving, “the 
same advice might benefit a sneaking, yellow- 
livered gunman working for Menendez. What 
d’you get nowadays for a safe job of shooting 
from behind, ‘Coyote’ Johnson?” 

‘ ‘ Chihuahua’s ’ ’ palms closed convulsively about 


THROUGH THE SMOKE 


229 


the butts of his revolvers. So rapidly that the 
movements seemed blurred, the two long guns 
came out; levelled upon Steve; belched flame. 

But Steve’s hand, hovering at the dummy 
tobacco-sack string at his shirt-pocket, had moved 
a split-second before. An automatic pistol came 
from the pocket, Steve’s thumb shoving down the 
safety-latch as it came. One of 4 4 Chihuahua’s ” 
bullets scorched Steve’s shoulder; the other went 
wide, for two steeljackets from the automatic 
struck the killer’s hands in lightning alternation, 
and the long Colts crashed to the floor. 

Not for nothing had Steve practised long hours 
upon the trail with the wicked little pistol. He 
pressed the trigger so long as there remained a 
shell in the automatic, and when the eighth shot 
had been fired it was very certain that never more 
would 44 Chihuahua” Johnson be feared as a gun¬ 
man. But one of the shots—fired at practically 
target range—had gone astray. Mercilessly and 
calculatingly Steve had driven seven bullets into 
the hands and wrists of Johnson. Now the killer 
sagged against the bar minus right trigger-finger 
and left thumb, with the bones of hands and wrists 
terribly shattered by the mushrooming, dum- 
dummed steeljackets. Three bullets had grazed 


230 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


Johnson’s abdomen after piercing hand or wrist; 
otherwise he stood uninjured. 

*‘Hurt, Steve?” bellowed Faraday, entering the 
front door with a bound, his grey moustache bris¬ 
tling like an angry dog’s ruff, twin long-barrelled 
Lugers levelled on ‘ ‘ Chihuahua. ’ ’ 

Steve shoved the automatic back into a pocket 
and shook his head. Morg’s drink still stood on 
the bar. Steve gulped down the liquor, then 
turned to Faraday. 

“I was at the door from the start,” explained 
the old adventurer grimly. “If that snake had 
got yo’—well, he’d never have got anybody else 
this side o’ Jordan River!” 

Suddenly Johnson slumped to the floor, with 
eyes closed and mouth agape. 

“He’s not dead,” said Steve, staring down 
moodily at the sprawling figure. “Not unless he 
cashed in from shock. I didn’t want to kill him; 
I shot purely in self-defence. Well, we’d better 
get a doctor. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Good riddance if he does die! Hello! What 
are you doing down here, Morg?” 

Morg had galloped in, pick-a-back upon a 
panicky mozo, his blue eyes blazing startlingly in 


THROUGH THE SMOKE 


231 


his chalky face. Upon the mozo’s shrinking 
shoulder rested Morg’s six-gun, the hammer at 
full-cock beneath Morg’s thumb. 

“Heard the—shots!” he panted. “Couldn’t 
wait—to see what’d happened. This hairpin— 
passin’ door. Made him—tote me down. Did 
you—drill him, Steve?” He fainted. 

When Morg was again in bed and Johnson re¬ 
moved to his room, with Dr. Gonzales to tend the 
shattered hands, Steve slumped upon his cot. 
Faraday stared speculatively. 

“I remember,” he drawled, with seeming ir¬ 
relevance, “yo’ were always lucky at shooting. 
Only it used to be with dice.” 

“Don’t think it was luck!” Steve said shakily. 
Now that all was over he suffered the natural re¬ 
action from the tenseness, the uncertainty, of the 
encounter. “I took no chances with that wolf. 
Last night I rigged this fake tobacco-sack string 
to hang from the pocket the automatic was in. 
Figured ‘ Chihuahua ’ might be looking for a 
sleeve-draw or any of the regular bag of tricks.” 

“Just the same, that stunt might not have 
fooled a vet. like 1 Chihuahua.’ I think I’ll stick 
to my belief that yo’ were unusually favoured of 


232 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


the gods this morning. Well, I’ll send up Doc 
Gonzales to see to Morg as I go down. See yo’ 
some more!” 

The excitement of Morg’s trip below-stairs 
brought on a fever. Dr. Gonzales administered 
a sleeping-powder, and when he had watched 
Morg relax under the opiate Steve became sud¬ 
denly conscious of an extreme emptiness. He 
snapped off the light, locked the door, and went 
downstairs. As he took his usual seat in the 
dining-room he noted that a new waiter lounged in 
the rear doorway. When the man came forward 
Steve eye him carelessly. 

‘ 4 Where is Rafael? He always waits on this 
table. ’ ’ 

“Rafael’s mother is very ill, senor,” the new 
man explained. “The message came but last 
night, I hear. I am now the waiter for this table. 9 9 

Obviously the new waiter was no adept. He 
strewed dishes helter-skelter across the cloth, 
handling them awkwardly. 

“Cafe?” he inquired, when at last he had un¬ 
loaded the tray. Steve nodded. 

The waiter sidled away, and Steve lifted a fried 
egg to his plate. Then suddenly he leaned back, 
to stare at the door of the dining-room that led 


THROUGH THE SMOKE 


233 


into the office. A ragged mucJiacho of eight or 
nine pattered through this door at that moment, 
evidently headed on a foraging-expedition to the 
kitchen. Steve beckoned, and the urchin came 
shyly over. Steve put a silver dime into the 
grimy little hand, then whispered in the boy’s 
ear. The mucJiacho nodded violently, with much 
display of white teeth, and scampered back into 
the office. Steve waited, narrow-eyed and grim 
of mouth. 

“Now, how much of a guesser am I this bright 
and sunny morning V’ he muttered. 

Then the boy reappeared, holding the light 
chain by which Pancho, the scrawny black 
monkey, was usually tethered to the desk near 
Arturo. Pancho’s wizened face and bird-like 
chirping alike betrayed irritation at this unusual 
interruption of his morning nap. Steve took the 
chain, observing that both Arturo and Dwyer now 
watched from the office-door. 

Pancho, in obedience to a twitch of the chain, 
scrambled into Morg’s chair and eyed Steve 
beadily. Deliberately Steve held out a bit cut 
from the egg on his plate. Pancho gulped it, and 
Steve watched intently as the monkey licked its 
muzzle. 


234 


THE TEAIL TO APACAZ 


Then Pancho’s darting glances discovered the 
plate of sliced oranges, and, without waiting for 
invitation, a slim paw shot out and captured a 
segment of naranjo. It followed the egg, and 
Steve raised expressionless eyes to the pair in 
the doorway. Arturo was openly shocked, but 
Dwyer’s broad, pallid face showed mild amuse¬ 
ment at Steve’s unusual occupation. Then a gasp 
recalled Steve’s attention to the monkey. Pancho 
had clapped both paws to his pot-belly; his mouth 
was stretched widely open, as if in a struggle for 
breath; the beady eyes rolled agonisedly. Then 
with a shrill, near-human scream the little animal 
toppled sideway to the floor, writhed for an in¬ 
stant, was rigid. 

With only a quick glance at Arturo and Dwyer, 
Steve sprang up and darted through the rear 
door. From this entrance a covered gallery led 
to the dirt-floored outbuilding which was the 
American’s kitchen. In the kitchen door Steve 
halted, with right hand hooked in cartridge-belt. 

Before the long, low, clay-floored bench that 
served as stove was the usual line of slovenly, 
barefooted women, and in a corner three waiters 
lounged beside a young girl. But of the nervous 
mozo who had served Steve there was no sign. 


THROUGH THE SMOKE 235 

‘‘Where is my waiter?” called Steve grimly. 
The oldest mozo turned with a shrug. 

“Quien sabe, senor? A few moments ago he 
went out and crossed the yard to the street. 
When I called to him, asking where he went, he 
made no answer.’’ 

“Who cooked the meal he brought me?” 

* i I cooked it, senor. ’ ’ An ancient woman turned 
from her work before a fire. “Was it not so good 
as usual?” Steve regarded her searchingly, but 
the withered face was calm. “I have cooked 
other meals for you,” she told him. “If the 
senor likes not my cooking—I am sorry.” 

“Tell me,” said Steve, puzzling the matter, 
“did the new man come to the fire while you 
cooked?” 

“Si, senor!” she nodded placidly. “He 
watched the eggs cooking and called to me to 
take them up when they were done. Then he 
went yonder to the table in the corner, taking the 
eggs upon his tray, to slice oranges for you.” 

Steve turned, whistling thoughtfully, and faced 
Dwyer and Arturo. The landlord stood in the 
kitchen door with Arturo slightly behind him. 

“Who was your new waiter?” drawled Steve. 

“New waiter?” repeated Dwyer, staring. 


236 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“Why, I don’t know. Arturo hired him yester¬ 
day when Rafael turned up with a sick-mother 
yarn. I told Arturo to get someone. Who was 
he, Arturo ? ’ ’ he concluded in Spanish. 

“I do not know him, senores,” denied the clerk, 
“except that he told me his name was Miguel 
Espinosa; that he was from Nicaragua and had 
worked in the dining-room of the Gran Hotel de 
Lupone in Managua. He said that he was a good 
waiter. What has he done!” 

Steve probed Arturo ’s innocent face, then 
turned back to Dwyer. 

, “He was neither Nicaraguan nor waiter,’’ he 
said dryly. “His accent was Floreno and his 
waiting damnably clumsy. Mama Lupone would 
lift the scalp from such a waiter. No, he was 
planted here. What has he done, Arturo? 
Nothing—except slip a dose of rama muerte — 
death leaf—into my breakfast.” 

“Death leaf!” gasped Dwyer. “Why—why— 
it couldn’t be! Why-” 

“Nevertheless it was! You saw Pancho die? 
Well, I don’t think that he cashed in from a secret 
sorrow or a broken heart. Rather fortunate that 
I put two and two together, having been fore¬ 
warned that something like this might be tried. ’ ’ 


THROUGH THE SMOKE 


237 


“Why, the saddle-coloured hound!” snarled 
Dwyer. “Cornin’ into my place to pull a stunt 
like that! Oh, but I’d love to lay hands on him 
for a minute! I’d make him hard to find! Say, 
I’m sure sorry about this, Mr. Lawhora! Hon¬ 
est! But—what’d he want to poison you for?” 
Dwyer’s little eyes were undeniably curious. 

“Oh, I reckon he figured he had reason enough 
—his pay-cheque’d furnish that. Never mind. 
Perhaps I’ll cut his trail one day. If I do I’ll 
make a question-mark of that long neck of his. 
Now I want my breakfast, and I’m going to watch 
it cooked this time.” 

Dwyer remained in the kitchen, furiously curs¬ 
ing Miguel, the vanished one. 

“Why, if this gets out,” he lamented, “I 
might’s well shut up the dinin’-room! Who’d eat 
in a place where they might be poisoned any 
minute ?’ ’ 

“Well,” grinned Steve, who was busied with 
his own reflections, “I’m not going to proclaim it 
from a soap-box, Dwyer.” 

1 i Say, that’s good o ’ you, Mr. Lawhom! I sure 
appreciate it.” 

After the meal, for the space required to roll 
and smoke five cigarettes very deliberately Steve 


238 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


remained at the table. Dwyer came in as he was 
rising, to say that another monkey would be 
brought in from the country that afternoon for 
Steve’s especial use. 

“You can take him to table an’ feed him a bite 
o’ ever ’thing,’’ beamed Dwyer. 

“Thanks! I’ll appreciate that monkey’s com¬ 
pany more than that of most men, ’ ’ Steve smiled. 
“Adulterated food is my particular abomination. 
See you later. ” 

He escaped from the gratefully voluble Irish¬ 
man with difficulty and stepped outside. Upon 
the side walk he hesitated for a moment, # then 
turned and sauntered with appearance of aimless¬ 
ness up the Avenida Nacional toward Central 
Plaza. 


Chapter XVII 

GAYLORD—STRATEGIST 


T HEKE was one man in whom Forster 
Gaylord reposed more confidence than any 
other; one man whom he considered a 
trifle shrewder, in any sort of business deal, than 
the next. This particular man was Forster 
Gaylord. 

The tall, stupid-faced oil-scout was not pleased 
these days. It was coming to him that he was 
being used. Nothing is more unpleasant to the 
man who is accustomed to using others than to 
find himself a tool. 

Gaylord had come to Apacaz with orders from 
Tri-Flag’s head which were simple but quite def¬ 
inite—all-embracing. 

“If the lands are as rich and extensive as re¬ 
ported —get that concession!” 

His expense-account was unlimited; Tri-Flag 
played no pikers’ hand. So long as results jus¬ 
tified them Gaylord’s expenditures would be 
passed without comment. So, after a month of 

239 


240 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


careful investigation, Gaylord had approached 
Menendez, whom he knew to he bankrupt. 

He had made a plain offer—a quarter-million 
in cash on the day that Tri-Flag landed the con¬ 
cession. Menendez had merely nodded accept¬ 
ance ; had promised briefly to remove Mays from 
the field, for all that Gomez could do. But he had 
said nothing since, if one excepted vague as¬ 
surances that all went as smoothly as might be 
expected. This silence irritated Gaylord. The 
New Yorker was not accustomed to having 
his carefully-prepared proposals meet blank in¬ 
difference—as Menendez met them. 

The oil-scout knew that Menendez considered 
these swaggering Texans stumbling-blocks in his 
schemes, even though Gaylord knew nothing 
of the schemes. Superciliously, Gaylord had 
watched the attempts to eliminate Steve and 
Morg. He prided himself on his shrewdness, his 
hard-headed common-sense. Dime novel methods 
were ridiculous, had no place in modern business. 
Menendez’ mediaeval attacks upon the Texans’ 
lives were ridiculous, Gaylord told himself. But, 
believing that every man thinks much of his own 
profit, much of the soundness of his own skin, 
above all, has his cash-price for committing any 


GAYLORD—STRATEGIST 


241 


crime, Gaylord had conveyed vague threats to 
Morg, believing they might prove effective. But 
he admitted now that he had erred; these Dia¬ 
mond Dicks had not become alarmed. Well, then, 
it was time to use the efficient Gaylord brain in 
earnest. 

These men were to be removed before the day 
that Congress met—to grant Tri-Flag the conces¬ 
sion. Since Menendez seemed powerless to turn 
the trick, direct modern methods might succeed. 
Gaylord was sure they would. 

By the very persistence of the attacks upon 
him, Steve had attained immunity from worry. 
But he found it hard to sit quiet; he spent 
hours in wandering aimlessly about the capi¬ 
tal, studying the faces he encountered, listen¬ 
ing to scraps of conversation in the hotel pa¬ 
tios, in the drinking-places respectable and 
questionable. 

He stepped out of the Boca del Toro cantina 
after a single limonada at the rough bar—crowded 
with natives of lower-middle and lower classes— 
and nearly trod upon Gaylord’s toes. The oil- 
scout blinked at him vacuously for an instant, then 
nodded. 


242 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“Uh—afternoon,” he grunted. “Looking over 
the—uh—sights ? 9 ’ 

Steve nodded, from beneath his hat-brim study¬ 
ing the stupid-seeming face. 

“I’ve—uh—been doing the same,” said Gay¬ 
lord. ‘ 4 But—had about enough. Drink?” 

Steve shook his head, but reconsidered his im¬ 
pulse to move on alone. Perhaps Gaylord had 
the answer to certain questions which he perpet¬ 
ually revolved these days. He leaned against the 
building wall and made a careful cigarette, while 
Gaylord tugged at his drooping, tawny moustache 
and blinked vacantly. 

“Uh—Lawhorn, I’d like to put a proposition to 
you.” Gaylord broke silence suddenly. 

“Shoot!” Steve began to understand the 
other’s presence there, so pat with his own. 

“It’s an—uh—offer of jobs for yourself and 
Connor.” 

“Here in Flores?” (Steve knew they would 
not be.) 

“No. In—uh—Brazil. My company is doing 
development work there. Need bosses such as 
you chaps. Pay is—uh—two-fifty a month, gold. 
Transportation to Rio from Puerto Naranjo. 


GAYLORD—STRATEGIST 243 

High pay, but—think you’re worth it. Right 
men are hard to get.” 

Steve admired Gaylord’s artistry. The oil-man 
had said just enough to explain his offer, without 
making the common error of over-compliment. 
Each fencer was guilty of a misthrust; Gaylord 
had no idea that Steve suspected his connection 
with Menendez, while Steve believed this offer— 
made for the sole purpose of getting them out of 
Apacaz—Menendez’ idea. But there was more he 
wanted to know. 

“Well, we’ve been considering other jobs,” he 
replied hesitantly. “They may pay a good deal 
more, and it’s at something we both know well. 
When would we leave?” 

“Day or two,” said Gaylord, inwardly tri¬ 
umphant. i 1 For the coast, that is. Y ’see, some of 
our uh—work down there is—uh—river-work. 
Want you to—uh—hire some boatmen in Naranjo. 
They’d go down with you. Takes time to—uh—• 
persuade those boatmen fellows!” 

From the encyclopaedic information in his brain 
Steve drew two items. No steamer would leave 
Naranjo for Panama until March fifth. This 
was February twenty-third. Also if Tri-Flag 


/ 


244 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


needed boatmen, these could easily be hired in 
Brazil. No, Steve decided, all this was merely 
part of the plan. 

“Afraid we couldn’t leave so suddenly,” he re¬ 
marked slowly. “The offer is—interesting; I 
don’t like to pass it up. But”—he stared in pre¬ 
tended embarrassment at his boot-toes—“I’ve 
a little—well, affair here which couldn’t be set¬ 
tled so quickly. A girl who—lives among the 
stars-” He broke off, counterfeiting a sheep¬ 

ish grin. Gaylord smiled. He thought he under¬ 
stood. Carlotta. 

“Besides,” Steve went on, “I’d like to see the 
big centennial pageant in honour of Flores’ in¬ 
dependence. That’s the twenty-eighth. Could 
you make our leaving day March first ? ’ ’ 

“Afraid not,” said Gaylord regretfully, after 
a keen, veiled glance at the Texan. “Persuading 
these boatmen to leave takes time. Might make 
it—uh—morning of the twenty-sixth. How would 
that be?” 

It was illuminating, Steve thought. If it were 
important to remove them before Menendez’ coup 
came, surely Gaylord would not have agreed to 
their staying in Apacaz until the twenty-sixth— 
if anything were scheduled to break before that 


GAYLORD—STRATEGIST 


245 


day, or on it. Menendez had told Gorman, in the 
mountain inn, that before the day that Congress 
met 66 something” would occur to give Gaylord 
the concession. Well, then! Between the twenty- 
sixth and the first—two days—Menendez must 
show his hand. So Steve smiled pleasantly upon 
Gaylord. 

“If my little—affair can be settled in time, I’ll 
let you know our decision. I can’t give a defi¬ 
nite answer now, but I’ll tell you as quickly as 
possible. Adios!” 

Steve strode away without giving Gaylord time 
to speak. He turned the next corner and dived 
into the entrance of the market-place, then turned, 
sheltered from view from the street. Sure 
enough, Gaylord had followed as far as the corner; 
stood staring. With a grin, Steve went on past 
the stalls that housed myriad dealers of the 
market. He halted finally before a saddler’s booth 
and began idle inspection of leather goods. 

He had stepped inside to examine an ornate 
saddle when a footstep behind him made him 
turn quickly. His nerves were tense these days. 
With an effort he kept his face inscrutable as he 
met level, violet eyes. Calmly Estelle came to¬ 
ward him; over her shoulder he saw the mozo 


246 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


of the Mays’ stable lounging in the doorway. 
Steve waited for her to speak, when she faced him 
nearly. He was wondering. 

i ‘ Mr. Lawhorn,” she said abruptly, “do you 
intend to leave Apacaz soon?” 

“Why, that depends upon what you mean by 
‘soon,’ ” replied Steve indifferently, for the calm, 
patronizing tone waked a devil of perversity in 
him. It was bad enough to have her consider him 
a brutal killer, a liar, and a philanderer; this he 
could endure because she had some ground for the 
belief. But this treatment of him, as if he were 
something far beneath her, waked honest anger. 

“How soon?” she asked, in the same superior 
tone. One dark brow arched interrogatively as 
she inspected him in that aloof, impersonal 
fashion. 

“Why, whenever I feel inclined to leave!” he 
told her grimly. “Is that all you want to 'know? 
If so, good-morning! ” Glowering down at her, 
Steve felt an almost overwhelming impulse to 
shake her until the teeth rattled in her patroniz¬ 
ing little head. But equally strong was the con¬ 
flicting—perhaps kin—emotion that urged him to 
snatch her up and cover the scornful red mouth 
with kisses. Both impulses he mastered. 


GAYLORD—STRATEGIST 


247 


“I’m sorry I said it in just that way. But 
that’s exactly the way I felt—feel—about it, and 
—well, a gunman isn’t expected to have great 
store of manners. One goes to—colonels and the 
like for politeness.” Steve’s tone was openly 
contemptuous. 

‘‘ Colonel Morales would never have been guilty 
of such an outburst,” she agreed icily, “any more 
than he would brutally beat a smaller man, or 
shoot an inoffensive stranger during a drunken 
bar-room brawl. But all that is beside the point. 

“I have learned something which concerns you. 
While it seems very important, my information is 
so vague that I prefer not to repeat it, if you in¬ 
tend to leave Apacaz before, say, day after 
to-morrow. ’ ’ 

“Well, I’m not leaving before that time.” 

“But—but don’t you realize that your very life 
is in danger here? That you have offended men 
in Apacaz who won’t hesitate to employ any 
means to—to put you out of the way?” For the 
first time emotion shook her even voice. Steve 
stared amazedly at her. 

i c Good Lord! ” he breathed reverently. 

“It’s the truth!” she assured him earnestly, not 
realizing that he had exclaimed upon her inno- 


248 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


cence instead of being alarmed by her warning. 

“Well, perhaps you’re right,” he drawled. 
“Ye-es, I fancy you are right. But what of it? 
A gunman, as you may have heard, is rather hard¬ 
ened against danger. My time in Flores thus far, 
even, hasn’t been wholly uneventful.” 

Suddenly her scarlet mouth tightened; she met 
his eyes with face disdainfully calm, as if forced 
to give explanations to which he had no real right. 

“I don’t want anything to happen to you here, 
because I feel responsible in a degree for your 
presence. There is to be an effort made—I don’t 
know of what sort—to—to—on the day of the 
pageant—to ” 

“ i Eliminate’ me,” Steve supplied politely. 
She nodded energetically. 

“So much Dolores heard. Your enemies—you 
must know their identity—intend to take advan¬ 
tage of the confusion during the celebration 
to-” 

“I see!” he nodded. “Well, perhaps I do 
know of these enemies—how I made them.” 

“With so many troops in the capital, so many 
wandering strangers from everywhere, accidents 
can happen with apparent naturalness. Can’t 
you understand? They—they’ll murder you in 




GAYLORD—STRATEGIST 


249 


some underhand way! You’ve made bitter, bit¬ 
ter enemies; they’ll draw the line at nothing. I 
—I know your time in Flores has not been un¬ 
eventful, as you said.” 

She paused breathlessly; her eyes searched his 
face with painful intentness. Once or twice, in 
the days following his affair with Morales at the 
Plaza, she had caught in Steve’s eyes, as they met 
hers, an expression that puzzled her, troubled her 
more than she would admit even to herself; some¬ 
how, she felt almost guilty. But always came 
memory of him in the darkness, with Carlotta’s 
arms about his neck, Carlotta’s impassioned 
“Heart of mine!” to harden her against him. 

The hammering of Morales she could have for¬ 
given him, for his hard life had naturally hard¬ 
ened him. But to ride with her day after day, 
then to turn to such a creature as the cafe-dancer 
by night —that was more than any girl of pride 
could endure. Too, Gaylord had said that Steve 
discussed her with Morales as if she, no less than 
Carlotta, were his property. 

“Why did you tight with Colonel Morales?” she 
demanded suddenly, then was aghast at the sound 
of her own words. The question had been in her 
mind for days, but she had not intended asking. 


250 THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 

Steve’s face set inscrutably, and she knew that 
he would not explain. 

“Oh, he had some ideas I didn’t endorse.” 
Steve’s tone was airy. “So I roughed him a bit 
to mark my disapproval. 

“But about the other. It’s partly because 
these—enemies make so many threats that I 
won’t leave. But, if anything should happen, 
you’re not affected in any way. I stay on my 
own account. A bad Jiombre like me, with a rep¬ 
utation to maintain, can’t afford to run. No-o, 
I’ll be here for perhaps a week after the pageant- 
day. 

“Now, Miss Mays, perhaps there are some fea¬ 
tures of this celebration which you haven’t con¬ 
sidered. There will be wild troops in Apacaz, 
some hardly more than savages. The riff-raff of 
Flores, of Central America, will throng here, ripe 
for devilment, looking for anything they can grab. 
There will undoubtedly be brawling between 
drunken soldiery and equally drunken towns¬ 
people. 

“If your father were here I’d tell him this; but 
I hope you’ll listen, and believe that I speak with 
kindly intent and from experience when I say that 
it will be much better for you to stay off the 


GAYLORD—STRATEGIST 


251 


streets on pageant-day. Yon needn’t miss any¬ 
thing; when the speeches are made, the ideal 
listening-place will be one of the balconies of the 
Palacio Blanco. You’ll hear the orators and see 
the ceremonies, yet if a panic or the like occurs, 
you’ll not be in danger of getting trampled. 
Will you remember this ? ’ ’ 

“Our arrangements for that day are already 
made,” she said coolly. “It is your affairs which 
are under discussion. I wish you’d consent to 
leave. I can’t help feeling in part responsible.” 

“Why, it’s kind of you to warn me, and I 
appreciate it, but you’re not responsible. I 
wouldn’t think of leaving now for—anything. 
Good-morning!” 

But at the door of the booth he halted beside the 
waiting mozo to stare at her thoughtfully. 

“Your trip to Flores has given you a glimpse of 
life in the raw,” he remarked slowly. “I think 
I’ll leave a thought or two with you regarding 
those men who live that sort of life. 

“That morning at the Plaza, Morales’ gun was 
out when I stood empty-handed. He had only 
one thought—to kill me. It would have been 
much less bother just to shoot him, yet I merely 
cuffed him a bit open-handed. 


252 


THE TKAIL TO APACAZ 


“The ‘inoffensive stranger,’ ‘Chihuahua’ John¬ 
son, whose ‘drunken bar-room brawl’ with me 
you mentioned, was imported by these enemies 
you’ve just learned of. He was to receive two 
thousand dollars the day I died—protected against 
prosecution, also. Before our encounter ‘Chi¬ 
huahua’ was called the deadliest gunman in Cen¬ 
tral America. My best friends hardly conceded 
me a chance for my life when he was set gunning 
for me. Yet I risked my life at point-blank 
range; used eight shots to cripple him for life, 
when one bullet would have killed him. You may 
find these points interesting!” 

She stepped impulsively forward with a trou¬ 
bled expression, her lips parted as if to speak. 
But Steve had disappeared in the crowd. He 
went through the rear door of the market and 
came out upon the Avenida Nacional, where the 
sidewalks were crowded with citizenry watching 
an infantry column march past. Steve halted to 
watch also. 

These were different men from the troops he 
had seen gathering all week. They were brawny, 
pure-blood Indians from the wild, remote fast¬ 
nesses of the northern mountains; some two thou¬ 
sand of them; not so well drilled as their 


GAYLORD—STRATEGIST 


253 


comrades-in-arms of the central and southern 
departamentos, but war-like figures withal; tall, 
broad-shouldered, with fierce, swarthy faces. 
They carried the usual long Mausers which Ger¬ 
many has unloaded upon every banana republic, 
but the bayonet was replaced by their favourite 
weapon, the wicked, three-feet-long machete . The 
brilliant-hued, hand-woven blankets thrown care¬ 
lessly over their shoulders made the ranks very 
colourful. 

As he watched the regular rise and fall of broad, 
sandalled feet, for perhaps the thousandth time 
Steve thought of Menendez’ plan. He had no 
doubt that it would be a Machiavellian scheme, 
carefully plotted to the tiniest detail, and—unless 
something gave it away prematurely—skilfully 
executed. Undoubtedly he and Morg had places 
in it. 

It was hard to believe that Menendez worked 
only to turn an oil-concession—even one worth 
millions—from one man to another. The plan¬ 
ning loomed too elaborate for no more than that. 
Something else was in the wind; something that 
would indeed block Mays’ concession, but only as 
a side-issue. Menendez was a man who envi¬ 
sioned great stakes. Steve shook his head 


254 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


gloomily. There remained only a few days until 
Congress met. Menendez must fulfil his boast 
before that time—unless he was even bigger than 
Steve believed him; big enough to wait, then drive 
home his blow a little later. 

By this time Steve had practically lost sight of 
the desirability of the promised position with 
Mays. He did not think that Mays considered 
him undesirable, even in the face of past events. 
But—Steve was beginning to believe that he could 
not bear to be so near a violet-eyed girl who now 
scorned him utterly. There was growing in him 
a craving to put miles and yet more miles between 
him and this, the scene of his fall from Estelle’s 
good opinion. 

He was watching the big soldiers broodingly 
when a shrill yell jerked him from his reverie. 
Suddenly he realised that he had been hearing, 
all the while, an undertone of unfavourable com¬ 
ment from the men and women standing about 
him. 

“Los Indios! Los Indios malol Los Indios 
diablos! (Indian devils!),” the crowd was shout¬ 
ing, with other more pointed descriptive matter. 

Here was more material for building reflection. 
Steve knew that those Florenos with a spoonful 


GAYLORD—STRATEGIST 


255 


of Spanish blood in them were contemptuous of 
the Indians, just as the Indians scorned the mixed 
breeds, the Criollos. But usually it was an 
apathetic emotion on either side. This demon¬ 
stration seemed different. It gave Steve more to 
mull over as he turned toward the American. 
Who had been stirring up this racial hatred? 
Why? 

In the bar-room Morg and Faraday greeted 
him with broad smiles. 

“No more bed for me!” Morg announced flatly. 
“I devilled Bill till he helped me downstairs. 
I’m so sick o’ that room that I figure to sleep 
down here on a billiard-table . 9 9 

Faraday left shortly, for he had many duties 
these busy days, when all the capital was in a 
turmoil of preparation. Morg rolled a cigarette 
on his thigh, one-handed, in the Mexican fashion, 
and looked shrewdly at Steve’s sombre face. 

“You ain’t lookin’ none too chipper these days, 
amigo. Somethin ’ slip ? ’ ’ 

“I’m just perpetually wondering what’s to hap¬ 
pen. Menendez’ time grows short. Pageant’s 
the twenty-eighth; Congress meets next day. 
Something must pop soon! Well, we’ll see 
it through, Morg; then what d’you say to drift- 


256 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


ing? Suit you to turn down the job with Mays?” 

“Sure! Anything you say.” Morg was re¬ 
garding Steve keenly. “But—I’m dam’ sorry, 
Steve, about—oh! everything, I guess, beginnin’ 
with the raw deal back home. Only for that-•” 

He dug hastily into a shirt-pocket and flipped 
a folded yellow paper to Steve, who caught 
and opened it. While the cablegram addressed 
to “Mr. Morgan,” had doubtless proved dis¬ 
tressingly unintelligible to Menendez’ creatures, 
Johnny Peacock’s characteristic speech was plain 
enough for the partners: 

“Speaking of shoes and ships and sealing wax told 
you D. A. would listen.— Johnny.” 

So the San Francisco District Attorney had 
moved promptly! That meant detectives on New 
Orleans dock waiting with grim patience for Leo 
Gorman. 

“When’ll you fix up the deportation business?” 

“Can’t say,” shrugged Steve. “But—Gor¬ 
man’s a gone coon, you bet!” 


Chapter XVIII 
PAGEANT DAY 


S TEVE rolled suddenly over and lay listen¬ 
ing tensely. The frantic, motif -less clang¬ 
ing of church-bells blended with a terrific 
clamour of drums and bugles from the cuartel — 
the military headquarters—near the Plaza. Then 
came the dull booming of artillery. It was Fri¬ 
day dawning; Flores the Eepublic waked to cele¬ 
brate her birthday. 

The holiday atmosphere was in the crowded 
dining-room when the partners went down to 
desayuno, the morning meal. Steve was sombrely 
silent. This was the day of days; the only thing 
which could possibly surprise him, he thought 
grimly, would be uneventfulness, and he did not 
expect to be surprised in that way. 

“By Joe!” grinned Morg, in whom the fiesta 
spirit had waked a devil of restlessness. “I feel 
like a ten-year-old on circus mornin\ Eemember 
circus-day in Saylor, when we was kids?” 

“Just as a hint,” Steve retorted dryly, turning 
257 


258 


THE TBAIL TO APACAZ 


a coldly-suspicious eye upon Morg. “I’ll warn 
you that if you’re very careful it may stick with 
y 0U —that feeling. Just you buck otf the notion 
that you ’re going to scramble through the crowds 
on the streets to-day. You crazy Comanche! 
Want to get that game-arm on the hummer again? 

“Now, I have to wander around town after a 
bit, but I won’t stir a step unless you promise to 
stay on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, or, 
better still, inside!” 

“A’ right, gran’ma! A’ right! Hike when 
you ’re ready. I won’t go no farther ’n the corner, 
you blame’ crepe-hanger!” 

The streets were already packed with towns¬ 
people in gala-clothing when Steve stepped out¬ 
side. On every house was displayed the national 
flag, the blue eagle on a white field. Bunting 
arched every street, festooned the government 
buildings. Troops had been arriving for a week 
from outlying comandancias , for by Gomez’ order 
there would *be extensive manoeuvres. Fara¬ 
day’s “hellcats” were groomed and drilled; pol¬ 
ished like blue glass were their vicious Colt 
machine-guns. The dashing hussars of the Presi¬ 
dent’s Guard were waiting to show what proper 
cavalry was like. 


PAGEANT DAY 


259 


In the Campo del Marte opposite the Military 
Academy soldiers were massing for the parade 
scheduled to start at ten o’clock. The Field of 
War was blanketed with men-at-arms in all the 
uniforms of Flores’ army. Three regiments of 
cavalry were drawn up, ready to lead the proces¬ 
sion, while in red-capped blue ranks behind them 
were infantry-men—short, yellow-faced peons of 
the central and southern departamentos in 
Zouave-style dungaree uniforms, for the most 
part, with only one regiment of the brawny, hook¬ 
nosed Indians from the northern mountains. 
Two bands played madly between infantry and 
the half-regiment of artillery drawn up beside 
three-inch field pieces. 

Steve inspected them from all sides with sol¬ 
dierly eye, walking the circuit of the Campo . 
Then he turned uptown, and around the line of 
Federal buildings discovered the mountain-troops 
he had missed on the Field of War. The Indians 
were drawn up in a single rank which encircled 
the four square blocks of Government buildings. 
Around the Palacio Blanco of Gomez—and within 
the line of Indians—was another cordon, this one 
of Faraday’s machine-gunners with their wicked 
Colt guns. Steve turned back and went down a 


260 THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 

side-street. He had seen all that he cared to see, 
but still all was not clear. 

By eleven o’clock, the parade being over, the 
Calle Grande before the Palacio Blanco was a 
solid mass of spectators. The long lines of fierce- 
faced, moveless Indians, leaning upon their long 
rifles, separated the townsfolk from the palace 
front, but they jammed the street and crowded 
every spot about the great white building. Fara¬ 
day’s “hellcats” now guarded only the sides and 
rear of the palace. To the right of the broad 
front portico, between Indians and steps, the 
President’s Guard sat restive black horses in 
column of platoons. 

Through the wide doorway of the palace came 
President Gomez, a brawny, hook-nosed, chocolate- 
brown man in frock coat and grey trousers. He 
was bareheaded, like the Cabinet members walk¬ 
ing behind and beside him. The officials fell 
back a pace, and the Dictator, his fierce features 
unreadable, walked to the edge of the portico at 
the head of the steps. So he stood for an instant, 
looking out over the people. 

There was none of the usual effervescent up¬ 
roar of Latin American crowds. A deathly hush 


PAGEANT DAY 


261 


rested upon all that mosaic of tense brown faces 
that paved the Calle Grande. The Indian soldiers 
lifted beady eyes and stared stolidly at this man, 
whom they considered their chieftain by blood as 
well as political position, a man of their own grim 
Mayan strain. But they made no sign, and the 
packed humanity behind them seemed gripped by 
the brooding expectancy which had marked the 
capital for days past. 

Menendez stepped from the ranks of Cabinet 
members, passed Gomez, and descended two steps. 
Then he turned and bowed to the Dictator with 
face as blank as his superior’s. When Gomez re¬ 
turned the salutation Menendez wheeled again to 
face the silent people. 

He was one of the most compelling orators in 
Central America, easily the greatest public 
speaker of Flores. For this reason, even if his 
position as senior Cabinet member had not made 
the choice a matter of form, he was the logical 
official to deliver this memorial address. 

For a long moment his jade-green eyes roved 
over the upturned faces; he seemed to study the 
scene in its tiniest detail. Then, with briefness 
that yet included picture-evoking phrase, Menen¬ 
dez sketched the history of Flores. 


262 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


He touched upon the era of Spanish dominion, 
when all Central America, as the Vice-Royalty of 
Guatemala, was ruled by captains-general from 
Spain; the union of Central American countries 
which snapped the fetters of Castile. He spoke of 
the wild people inhabiting a wilder land; traced 
the halting progress toward civilization of Fran¬ 
cisco Morazan and a few like leaders, who had 
dragged the people with them. The crowd, 
swayed by his personal magnetism, listened 
breathlessly, barely moving. 

Steve, lounging in the shelter of a great column 
of the portico, out of sight both of the Cabinet 
members and the speakers, acknowledged the 
strong personality of the Minister. A searching 
glance at the spectators revealed their yielding to 
the almost hypnotic spell. Here, Steve fancied 
idly, lay the secret of Menendez’ wide public in¬ 
fluence ; for almost was Steve himself conscious of 
willingness to believe anything Menendez might 
say, to agree with whatever Menendez might 
propose. 

Then a tiny movement, so slight as to be barely 
noticeable, caught Steve’s eye. It came from the 
packed mass behind the grim infantrymen, but, 
strain his eyes as he might, Steve could single out 


PAGEANT PAY 


263 


no person moving, though the tremor in the crowd 
continued. Then, wriggling between two soldiers, 
who stood gaping upward at Menendez, a man 
appeared. 

He was the ordinary barefooted peon to all ap¬ 
pearance, in shirt and trousers of coarse and 
faded cotton. Around his waist was the wide 
leather belt of many buckles, holding up the in¬ 
evitable machete in leather sheath—the razor- 
edged weapon, three feet of bright blade-length, 
common implement of the Central American for 
purposes ranging from wood-chopping to battle. 
Except for his pushing to the front there was 
nothing unusual about the man. 

But Steve had posted himself behind the pillar 
for the sole purpose of watching events. His 
nerves were in what was, for him, extreme ten¬ 
sion. He studied everything, no matter how 
superficially trivial. He had already assured him¬ 
self that, whether in obedience to his sugges¬ 
tion or as part of their prearranged program, 
Estelle and her father sat in a balcony of the State 
building across the street, from which they could 
look down upon speaker and audience. 

Morales stood in the forefront of a group of 
staff-officers on the opposite side of the portico, 


264 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


on Gomez ’ left. The little Colonel was brilliantly 
uniformed, but the several sharp glances Steve 
sent him discovered a palpable nervousness. 
Morales twiddled with his sword-knot, wriggled 
his shoulders, moved his feet restlessly. 

The barefooted man had moved until he stood 
barely ten feet distant from the bottom step, but 
somewhat to the right of it, so that he was shel¬ 
tered from view of those in the portico ’s centre by 
the horses of the President’s Guard. Here he 
had stopped, and stood staring up at Menendez, 
listening intently with slightly-parted lips, as 
everyone else in the street was listening. Steve 
watched the man; watched the crowd behind; 
watched the statue-like infantrymen. This might 
be an incident without meaning—no one else 
seemed to have observed it—but Steve was in the 
mood to heed anything, however small. For a 
week he had felt much as if he sat upon a charge 
of dynamite, with a fuse burning somewhere out 
of sight. Even now he had no hint of what moved 
in the keen brain behind Menendez’ impassive 
face. 

“That was the old!” Menendez paused amid 
utter silence. With impressive slowness he 
raised his hand, the forefinger stabbing out over 


PAGEANT DAY 


265 


their heads. “All about you in our splendid city, 
everywhere in our smiling land, you may see the 
symbols of the new order. Troubles have come 
to you in the past through evil rulers; troubles 
may come again to Flores, from within or without. 
But it is no part of our destiny to fail! My faith 
is in the people of this great republic—that they 
will never cease to cast down tyrants, to move 
forward upon the path of progress. 

“The black days of blind barbarism, of slug¬ 
gishness, of inactivity, of tyrannous autocrats 
holding you as helpless beasts, are gone for ever! 
Now- ” 

With the shouted word that motionless figure 
behind the hussars sprang out and upward like a 
rowel-stung horse. One jaguar-leap took him 
half-way up to Menendez, his voice rising shrilly in 
a weird, hair-raising scream that may have been 
the war-cry of savage, Mayan ancestors. The 
machete was out, the murderous blade flashing 
like lambent silver in the yellow sunlight- 99 

He passed Menendez; halted beside Gomez. 
The machete flickered whistlingly sideway to full 
arm-length. But before he could swing it back 
in the deadly side-stroke that would have shorn 
through the Dictator’s neck as through a rotten 


266 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


banana-stalk, before Gomez could move, before 
the transfixed throng could draw breath, Steve 
was behind the man. 

One big, vise-like hand clamped crushingly upon 
the assassin’s wrist; bones snapped dully; the 
machete clanged down upon the stone floor. The 
next instant the man, struggling maniacally in 
the air above Steve’s head, hurtled out above the 
steps, to crash down at the feet of the Indian 
soldiers. 

Gomez had shot one quick, identifying glance at 
the man. He sprang forward and snapped his 
fingers. A dozen machetes flashed out in the rank 
of Indians; rose; fell swiftly; gave instant ex¬ 
ecution to the sprawling figure. Gomez watched 
the assassin’s end, then sinisterly he looked down 
at Menendez. 

It had all come too swiftly for the crowd to com¬ 
prehend; the people still stood moveless, gaping 
upward. But Menendez’ heavy features were 
puttyish in their pallor. 

“So you let Umano from the asylum—to mur¬ 
der me!” Gomez’ ringing tones were grim, but 
Steve fancied they contained a note of satisfac¬ 
tion too. “You are done, Menendez! The firing 
squad will write period to your dream of power. 


PAGEANT DAY 


267 


Congress will meet to-morrow, and, for all yonr 
boasts to Gorman in the mountain inn, in your 
house, your rogue-friends go empty-handed—as I 
willed they should. 

“You are done, Menendez! I know all your 
plans—have blocked them all! Buy Gomez is still 
master of Flores, Menendez, and you—you are 
done ! m 

Then Menendez whirled to face the terror- 
stricken Morales, who gaped stupidly, loose 
mouth working pitfully beneath the tiny waxed 
moustache. 

“Traidor!” screamed Menendez furiously, and 
with the accusation he snatched a pistol from the 
bosom of his frock-coat. He pulled trigger twice, 
and a heavy bullet smashed into Morales’ sagging 
mouth. 

Again Gomez snapped his fingers, even as Steve 
waited tensely with both Colts trained upon the 
Minister. A squad of the fierce-eyed Indians 
catapulted up the steps and smothered Menendez. 
He wrestled desperately, so that the compact 
group surged and heaved. At last he got the 
pistol-muzzle against his temple, stiffening his 
thick, squat body against the clutching soldiers as 
a bear might rise with the dogs hanging to it. 


268 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


With the muffled report the Minister slumped into 
the Indians ’ arms. 

Then the mercurial crowd found its voice! 

“Viva Gomez! Viva Gomez!” rose the shouts. 
Menendez’ name was called, also, but coupled with 
bitter execrations. 

Suddenly the cheering halted short; the crowd 
surged toward the left, slowly at first, then with 
a rush that cleared the street before the palace of 
all save the thin line of Indians and the hussars 
of the Guard. Panic-stricken, with yells of pain 
as many were trampled underfoot, the people fled. 
Steve, staring upstreet as the fear-smitten throng 
had stared, saw soldiers in blue Zouave-dress 
coming at double-time, the bayonets on their 
ported rifles twinkling sinisterly in the sunshine. 
At the same instant Estelle Mays, unaccompa¬ 
nied, emerged from the State building and turned 
calmly to cross the street. 

“Viva Menendez the Liberator!” shouted the 
oncoming troops. 

Estelle whirled at the battle-cry and stood as if 
paralysed in the middle of the Calle Grande, 
squarely between the onrushing rebels and the 
Indians of Gomez, who had wheeled at a sharp 
word of command from an officer to fling them- 


PAGEANT DAY 269 

selves across the street in company-square and 
meet the Menendezistas. 

With cold fear gripping him, Steve sprang 
down the steps, hurling to the right and left the 
soldiers in his way. He was at the girPs side just 
as the rebels dropped upon one knee to fire. 
Steve picked up the slender figure—blind to the 
almost prayerful relief in her eyes at sight of 
him—and sprinted desperately toward the oppo¬ 
site sidewalk. Luckily, that first volley was as 
ragged as most bullets of Central American 
troops; one bullet nicked his hat-brim, but the 
others no more than splattered the pavement at 
his heels. He gained the sidewalk unscratched, 
and dropped his precious burden before the door¬ 
way from which she had come. 

As her feet touched the tiles Estelle screamed 
shrilly and tried to push Steve down. Above the 
rattle of rifle-fire rose the staccato cracking of an 
automatic pistol; bullets seemed to rain against 
the wall about them. Steve whirled. With his 
elbow he shoved the girl inside the open door, 
jerking both Colts at the same instant. He 
glimpsed a short, paunchy figure across the street 
squeezing the trigger of a pistol. The last bullet 
slapped viciously against the wall; Gorman was 


270 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


shooting high and right. Then the Irishman 
dropped as if felled by a club, with Steve’s bullet 
in his shoulder. 

The rebel-fire slackened abruptly, amid yells of 
panic, for Faraday’s “hellcats,” grinning fero¬ 
ciously, had rushed around the corner from the 
palace rear. They sprayed bullets from machine- 
guns upon the rebel flank, while the Indians fired 
methodically. Those of the Menendezistas—not 
many—surviving the first impact of that deadly 
double-fire threw down their weapons and fran¬ 
tically waved their surrender. 

Gomez had watched all with grimly-exultant 
smile. When the handful of rebels had been 
marched away, ringed about by the “hellcats,” 
the crowd surged back into the Calle Grande. 
They cheered the big figure on the portico to the 
echo. Gomez beckoned them nearer, and when 
again they stood silently, with upturned faces, he 
looked down upon them indulgently, as a school¬ 
master might regard his pupils. 

“My people, you have seen the end of a schem¬ 
ing traitor and his silly tools,” said Gomez calmly. 
“So always will Flores reward the unfaithful. 
Every man who was in Menendez’ plot will die. 
Remember their fate when men whisper to you 


PAGEANT DAY 


271 


that your Government should be overthrown. 

“Now it is my command that you continue the 
celebration. Some men have died this morning; 
more will die before the night. But I say this 
has been a good day for Flores!” 

They viva 'd madly, and he nodded acknowl¬ 
edgment, then turned from them to face Steve, 
who had recrossed the street after the firing’s end 
and climbed the steps. Gomez regarded the big 
Texan with a smile upon his fierce face. Sud¬ 
denly he pulled from his finger a great gold ring, 
in the semblance of a coiled serpent bearing in its 
mouth a huge emerald. He raised Steve’s hand 
to slip the gem upon a finger, then gripped the 
hand hard. 

“I owe you more than I can ever repay, General 
Lawhom!” he said in English. “But I should 
like to lessen the debt as much as I can. Also, 
there is the matter of the man Gorman’s exami¬ 
nation. Will you help me with that ? ’ ’ 


Chapter XIX 

“MAN PROPOSES, BUT -” 

GARBLED, lurid account of the morn¬ 



ing^ events came to Morg from one of 


-X. Jlk the American’s servants as Morg moved 
restlessly up and down, listening to the clatter of 
shots from upstreet. He had made perhaps his 
twentieth trip to the corner to stare nervously 
toward the Plaza when Steve turned a corner and 
came quietly down the Avenida. Morg hurried 
forward and halted Steve in the middle of the 
block. 

“ What’s all the shootin’ about? The room-boy 
says Menendez’ an’ Morales was wiped out— 
what about it? He says the army turned on 
Gomez an’ only a few northern troops held fast 
—that right?” 

Steve grunted unintelligibly. A splinter of 
stone, knocked from the wall by Gorman’s fusil¬ 
lade, had pierced his chest-muscles, and he had 
lost blood. He was in no mood for talk. 

i ‘ Well, spill it,” prompted Morg, as they turned 
into the bar-room door. 


272 


“MAN PROPOSES, BUT- 


273 


7j 


“Whiskey!” ordered Steve of Antonio, drop¬ 
ping into a chair, then began the deliberate manu¬ 
facture of a cigarette. Morg eyed him indig¬ 
nantly, then his eyes found the blood-caked shirt 
just above Steve’s heart. With swift indrawing 
of breath he got up, came around the table, and 
pulled open the garment with tender fingers. 
Then he glared accusingly at Steve. 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Steve reassured him. 
‘ 1 Gorman bushwhacked me, and one of his bullets 
knocked a chip from a wall. Went in about an 
inch. It’s not even bleeding now. I got him 
through the shoulder. Rotten shooting on both 
sides. He missed eight times. I shot as I turned, 
so I didn’t kill him.” 

He drained his glass and then leaned back 
wearily. 

“When I saw, this morning, that the sentinels 
around the Federal buildings were all Indians 
from the north, that seemed odd—I knew nothing 
of Gomez’ plans—but unimportant. So, after 
looking over the whole town, I got behind a pillar 
on the portico. 

“You see, we’d been expecting something to 
pop to-day or to-morrow, but we couldn’t figure 
just what it would be. So we-” 



274 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


“We,” interrupted Morg frowningly. “What 
d’you mean— weV y 

“Why, Gomez and I! Surely! I told him 
everything we’d learned. That was on the day of 
my argument with ‘ Chihuahua’ Johnson. I 
drifted down to the palace and sent in my name, 
and the Dictator had me brought in immediately. 
He’s a man, Morg! When I stopped for breath, 
he nodded. 

“ ‘I knew there was uneasiness in the capital— 
the country,’ he said calmly. ‘But my agents 
have been unable to locate the cause. I knew, too, 
that Menendez would block my plans if he could, 
but I had no idea that he’d dare to go as far as 
this! ’ 

“Then he asked me to consider ourselves—you 
and I—as his personal agents. He remarked that 
he’d take a few precautions on his own account. 
He did! It may be that he knew Menendez better 
than I did, or has a better understanding of the 
native mind; possibly both. He anticipated the 
armed uprising which occurred, while I looked for 
only a political rebellion at first—swinging the 
politicians against Gomez and showing him to be 
powerless—and then, later, the crash.” 


“MAN PROPOSES, BUT-” 275 

Arturo entered the bar-room and crossed to 
their table. 

“The Senor Dwyer / 7 he said apologetically. 
“I look for him, senores. The man who brings 
our maize is here for his money.” 

“Why not tell him to return later?” snapped 
Steve, and Arturo withdrew. 

“Well,” Steve went on thoughtfully, “Menen- 
dez planned to have only troops from the central 
and southern departments here for the celebra¬ 
tion—troops recruited principally from the estates 
of Menendez’ friends, anti-Gomez men, like him¬ 
self. We learned to-day that one regiment was 
in Menendez’ pay from Colonel to drummer-boy! 
The Indians from the north were to be left there, 
since they are pro-Gomez to a man. 

“But Gomez interfered, with some smiling re¬ 
mark about sentiment, with this arrangement. 
He insisted upon having the Indians from his own 
section come down. When they got here, Gomez 
posted them about the Federal buildings. Other¬ 
wise he interfered with Menendez’ grouping of 
troops—without arousing Menendez’ suspicions, 
it seems. 

“Menendez had sneaked a lunatic named 


276 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


Umano from the Federal asylum, promising him 
a chance to kill the Dictator. Umano was once a 
tax-gatherer, and when he went crazy and was 
locked up he blamed Gomez. Gorman coached 
Umano for weeks, and to-day the maniac hopped 
up the portico-steps at Menendez’ signal. I saw 
him, and when he threatened Gomez, why, I 
grabbed him. He’s dead now; the Indians settled 
him. 

“So Menendez’ plan to overthrow the Govern¬ 
ment and seat himself—legally, too!—in Gomez’ 
chair by the one stroke of Gomez’ murder went 
blooey! Good scheme, though; as senior Cabinet 
member Menendez automatically would have been 
president pro tem. The army would back him 
up, except for the northern troops, and with 
arsenal and Government machinery in his hands, 
what had he to fear? 

“He intended, so Gorman confessed—we just 
third-degreed Gorman at the palace—to shoot 
down Umano the minute Gomez was killed, there¬ 
by removing any suspicion of complicity in the 
murder. 

“Menendez thought Morales was the traitor, so 
he shot him, then committed suicide to beat 
the firing-squad. So”—Steve stretched luxuri- 


“MAN PROPOSES, BUT-” 


277 


ously—“everything’s over except the trial of the 
other conspirators. They’ll be dead by morning. 
Gomez is still master; more so than ever, with 
Menendez dead. 

“How’s the arm and constitution generally, 
old-timer ? ’ ’ 

“Fair. Two-three days an’ I’ll be mashee . 
Think I’ll stroll down town this evenin’. Say, 
it’ll seem funny not to need a couple holsterfuls 
o’ hardware, huh?” 

“Reckon the town’s about ours,” Steve nodded. 
“Gomez is generous to those he likes. He made 
me a ‘Perpetual General’—whatever that may be 
—in the army, and you’re the same breed of 
Colonel—honours to exist until our death. Then 
he gave me this”—the great emerald gleamed 
duskily upon his raised hand—“and offered us 
anything we wanted—Government timberlands, 
ranches, this place-” 

“This place? Why, what’s happened to 
Dwyer? Was he in the scheme?” 

“He was! He’s on his way to San Pedro now, 
with a fine, large military escort. Deported. 
He’ll be under guard clear to New Orleans. You 
see”—Steve’s eyes twinkled—“his real name 
happens to be Leo Gorman! Yep! I knew it 



278 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


all the time, but I feared your innocent face’d 
publish the news to him if I told you. I found out 
that night I had my ear glued’ to Menendez’ 
window. 

“Remember the white scar in Dwyer’s palm? 
Well, that night, when Gorman was begging 
Menendez not to turn him over to the authorities, 
he threw up his hand, and I saw the scar. Then 
I had him where the hair was short! Gorman, 
with a good scrubbing, clean linen, and minus 
black moustache and wig, made Dwyer the hotel- 
man. Remember how he was always disappear¬ 
ing— i on business’? 

“I wondered just where Gorman could be so 
popular as Menendez had intimated, so I thought 
of sending a radiogram to New Orleans and ask¬ 
ing the police-chief there if he had Gorman’s rec¬ 
ord. You made your famous ride to ’Pedro and 
—Gorman was fixed. Gomez made out the 
deportation-order a week ago, leaving the date 
blank. It was executed to-day. ’ ’ 

“You old Nick Carter! But what’d you tell 
Gomez—about takin’ up his offers?” 

‘ 4 Oh, I said we planned to head south to Argen¬ 
tina. Couldn’t think of accepting rewards. I—I 


“MAN PROPOSES, BUT-” 279 

don't fancy this country, Morg. Argentina 'll suit 
us. Sure it will!'' 

“Oh, she's good enough." Morg was eyeing 
his partner narrowly. “But why the big rush? 
Is it—the li'l lady, amigo mio? Estelle?" 

“Certainly not! But we're finished here. 
After Menendez had issued his bale of warnings 
I wouldn't hike. Too, until—well, lately, I 
thought we'd work for Mays. But—not now. I 
—I'm restless as the Wandering Jew." 

“Bueno! We'll hike whenever you say. But, 
right now, this excitement's done horrible things 
to my appetite. She's all swelled up like a toy 
balloon. Let's go get it!" 

In mid-afternoon Steve went upstairs. When 
he came down an hour later he was bathed and 
shaved and wearing the grey suit that seemed to 
bring him adventures whenever he donned it. 
But he was less talkative, if possible, then he had 
been before. Tiring finally of grunts and mon¬ 
osyllables, Morg withdrew to a table behind Steve 
and occupied himself with solitaire. 

They went in to comida at dusk. Morg chat¬ 
tered volubly throughout the meal, without en- 


280 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


couragement of any sort. Afterward, Steve dug 
up an ancient magazine and settled beneath a light 
iu the corner of the bar-room. Morg renewed his 
solitaire for a time, but finally rose and yawned 
with elaborate attention to detail. 

“Sure is sleepy weather,’’ he drawled, then 
sauntered toward the patio door. 

Steve made no reply, keeping his eyes upon 
the page. Morg halted just outside the door¬ 
way, cocking an ear toward Steve for a moment. 
Then he went noiselessly through the patio into 
the hotel office and so out to the street. He 
crossed it swiftly and moved toward the brighter 
lights about the Plaza, grinning pleasantly to 
himself. 

After Morg’s departure the room seemed un¬ 
bearably dull. For an hour Steve tried to read, 
but at last tossed the magazine into a far corner 
with highly uncomplimentary comment, and 
clapped his hands. Antonio hastened over with a 
bottle of Black-and-White. 

“Who told you I wanted Scotch?” Steve 
growled. 

Antonio shrugged placatingly. It was not for 
him to criticize the inconsistencies of diablos 
Americanos . Besides, this one was a most dan- 


“MAN PROPOSES, BUT-” 281 

gerous man when aroused. So Antonio smiled 
inoffensively. 

“In the evenings it has always been the Scotch, 
senor. Do you now desire the something 
different ?” 

“No, leave it.” 

Steve gulped a thimbleful and made a horrible 
face. 

“HelPs doorbells! Speaking of furniture- 
polish, badly scorched!” 

He refilled his glass, but the second drink was 
even worse; he barely wet his lips, and set down 
the glass. He felt a nauseating disgust for every¬ 
thing about him, for all that his life touched. 
Well, he shrugged, perhaps it would be better 
upon the trail. But immediately his heart 
branded him a liar. It would be worse, with 
every step taking him farther from the place 
where he had dreamed pleasant, if silly, dreams; 
farther from a violet-eyed girl- 

Grimly he clamped his jaws together and stood 
up. His saddlebags were topsy-turvy, and it 
would never do to start a long journey with the 
alforjas looking like—“Hell on a Monday morn¬ 
ing,” he finished sourly. Then he sat down 
again. He shrank from facing Morg, who would 


282 THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 

be bubbling over with humorous questions and 
remarks. 

But still, however dolefully he sighed at the 
prospect, those alforjas needed repacking. Steve 
was an orderly soul, and habit is an inconveniently 
sharp spur. He got up and slouched dejectedly 
out and up the stairs to the balcony. A light shone 
above the door of No. 15, and Steve halted for an 
instant while he assumed an expression utterly 
carefree. Then he opened the door upon an 
empty room. 

He had rather dreaded Morg’s cheerfulness, but 
now he felt vaguely hurt. Everyone deserted 
him these days—Faraday, even Morg. His part¬ 
ner was probably in one of the cafes by now; sit¬ 
ting with a drink before him, watching some slim 
native girl whirl through a mad dance. 

Savagely Steve jerked the big saddlebags from 
beneath his cot, then squatted upon his heels to 
regard them frowningly. There was a vague 
oddity about them. He picked them up, then he 
knew. They were marvellously light! He held 
them upside down, and out dropped a single rose 
from each—splendid blood-red flowers. At these 
he gaped, then laid them upon the cot and stood 
up. He crossed to Morg’s cot and drew out 


“MAN PROPOSES, BUT-” 283 

Morg’s alforjas. Opened, they displayed their 
usual contents. 

“Plague take that animal!” Steve growled to 
the world. “He’s just about convalescent, I'd 
tell the neighbours! ’ ’ 

In the wall-closet his belongings made a tumbled 
heap. Steve rescued an armful. “The blame’ 
Comanche! Everything I own every which way 
for Sunday!” 

Then the roses caught his eye again. He 
picked one up, and there came to him flashing 
recollection of a morning in the Mays’ patio, when 
Estelle, in habit and breeches and little tan boots, 
had come out to him sparkling-eyed and fresh as 
the dawn. She had worn such a rose as this. 

Steve sat down upon the window-ledge and 
stared out through the window-bars into the star- 
studded vault overhead. Such a black wave of 
despondence as he had never known swept him. 
He rested his forehead against the bars and closed 
his eyes. 

The gentle creaking of the door came to him. 
Morg, coming in silently, thought Steve, to see the 
result of his horse-play. Steve did not intend to 
display his inner feelings. Slowly he raised his 
head and turned, then stared unbelievingly. 


284 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


Leaning upon the door-facing was the girl whose 
image had been in his thoughts. There was 
nothing in her face except polite interest; the 
violet eyes were as softly void of all expression 
as twin pools of sea-water—even when they 
wandered to the rose in his hand. 

“You seem to he packing,” she said reflectively, 
while Steve still stared, dumb with utterest aston¬ 
ishment. Now, how had she come to stand in that 
door—in the American at all ? 

“May I ask your destination, Mr.-1 mean 

General Lawhorn?” The inquiry was courteous, 
but no more. No, certainly no more. 

“Argentina.” 

“But why Argentina? Once you told me it was 
to the States that you wanted to go; to—Texas, 
wasn’t it?” 

“Odd that you remember that,” he told her 
dryly, “considering that you forgot everything 
else I said. Or so you wrote.” 

“Oh, but I didn’t forget! Not at all. I wrote 
that I didn’t believe.” 

“Amounted to the same—as it happened.” 

“But why leave Flores? I understand that 
President Gomez has made you a General, has 
offered you a ranch, with stock and everything you 


“MAN PBOPOSES, BUT-” 


285 


could possibly want. I should think that you’d 
prefer to start for yourself rather than work for 
someone else.” 

“I have never done anything in the hope of 
reward. ’ ’ 

“No?” The violet eyes opened wide, one dark 
brow curving interrogatively in a way Steve re¬ 
membered vividly. “Why, didn’t you oppose 
Menendez and save the President’s life and his 
position for—because you expected reward? 
No? Then why did you do it? Why did you mix 
in this conspiracy at all, keep Menendez from 
winning—as the President says you did single- 
handed? I’m really curious about you! I’m 
anxious to know why you risked your life day and 
night, worked like a story-book detective, even— 
even made love to—to girls to learn what they 
knew. I hear you had dozens of narrow escapes. 
Why did you set your heart on defeating Menen¬ 
dez if not for reward? It wasn’t for Gomez’ 
sake? Sure?” 

“Oh, of course not! Certainly not!” Steve 
snapped irritably. 

“Then it was because—because you’re just—- 
just naturally meddlesome?” 

“Oh, perhaps!” Steve began stacking clothing 


286 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


and cartridges in two neat piles on his cot, his 
manner proclaiming to all who might watch, his 
complete engrossment in the task. 

“No, it wasn’t! I know why yon blocked Men- 
endez; why yon notified the San Francisco au¬ 
thorities about the man Gorman; why yon re¬ 
mained in Apacaz at hourly risk of your very 
life! Yon did it for—because—anyway, I know! 
And now—you’re going to Argentina?” 

“Day or two. Soon as Morg can ride.” But 
this time Steve could not keep the dreariness from 
his voice. Why had she come here to tantalise 
him with sight of her ? It had been hard enough 
before, but now—now, it was plain hell! 

“Why not—Texas?” 

Steve turned upon her sharply. From the 
bosom of her dress came a folded yellow paper, 
to Steve’s eyes much like a cablegram. She 
held it out, and after momentary hesitation he 
stretched a long arm to take it. It was a cable¬ 
gram, addressed to Howard Mays. Steve saw 
the superscription, then automatically he read the 
signature: “Benjamin Allison, Sheriff, Saylor 
County, Texas, U.S.A.” 

The blood ebbed from Steve’s tanned cheeks as 
he read the message: 


“MAN PROPOSES, BUT 


287 




“If yon know whereabouts Stephen Lawhorn please 
inform him all charges against him cancelled. Saylor 
County has new administration all white men. Ramon 
Guerra died suddenly of lead poisoning. Oil discovered 
all over Circle Diamond Ranch. Can sell for half mil¬ 
lion or more. Please make Steve return immediately. ,, 

Estelle watched him, twin spots of bright colour 
in her cheeks. Steve was staring out between the 
window-bars with gaze that reached far and far 
away—clear to the yellow-white reaches of Texan 
prairies- 

“I can go back! Not to dodge and sneak again 
—ever. A half-million for my stack of chips. 
Morg will be glad, Miss Mays; mighty glad. He ’s 
been homesick for years, but wouldn’t admit it— 
the Comanche!” 

“But you? Aren’t you pleased—a little even? 
Why, I thought you’d be delighted, so I brought 
the message myself. It’s a week old, but dad just 
received it—more of Menendez’ scheming, I sup¬ 
pose, behind the delay. Dad cabled Saylor City 
when I—tried to help you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Thanks awfully. I—I’m delighted, of course; 
I’ll go back, all right—I guess.” 

She stared in genuine bewilderment now. 
Then a slow smile curved the scarlet lips. With 


288 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


little Chinese steps she scurried across the room 
and perched herself on Morg’s cot with a flash of 
blue, silk-sheathed ankles. 

“Tell me, St—General Lawhorn,” she said, the 
voice wheedlingly soft and very, very humble, 
“were you ever—in love?” 

Steve regarded her grimly. No longer did she 
remind him of a slim boy. She was rather like 
a little, little girl as she sat cross-legged upon the 
cot, dark head lowered, violet eyes intent upon her 
shining nails. 

“I was!” he said slowly, then sat down with 
compressed lips. “Like to hear the sad tale? I 
don ’t in the least mind telling! ’’ 

She shrank back as if she had been struck before 
the bitterness of his voice. 

“I was—just about what I am now, except that 
there was a price on my head. She told me she 
believed that I’d been rather banged about; that 
I’d been pushed into most of the things I’d done 
awry; that she considered me, despite the world’s 
opinion, not wholly outside the pale. 

“Then I played the fool while trying to be a 
detective, and a native girl put her arms around 
my neck—just in time for me to be seen, of course. 
Next I cuffed a treacherous little braggart. So 


“MAN PROPOSES, BUT-” 


289 


I was informed that I’d been judged again; this 
time found to be what the world proclaimed me— 
a killer, a ruffian decent folk couldn’t tolerate. 
That’s all!” 

“Are you—sure!” 

“Sure! I’ve had time to think. When I got 
your note it seemed at first that the universe had 
toppled upon me. But I had half-expected it, too. 
So those few days I was permitted were— are — 
the most precious things I’ve ever had. But even 
while I had them I knew they couldn’t last. If 
life had been different-” 

Thought of Tommy Harrison came like a knife- 
stab. 

“I suppose I should congratulate little Harri¬ 
son!” he said quietly. “And you also! He’ll 
make a good man, one day. He—he hasn’t a past, 
and so he’s luckier than he knows—luckier than 
he’ll ever know.” 

“I expect him to make a good husband,” nodded 
Estelle gravely. “When Tommy marries I’ll be 
very sure to congratulate the bride.” 

Steve stared blindly at her, stared so long and 
with such revealment in his eyes of the dumb 
pleading in his heart that she could bear it no 
more than an instant. She darted across to him 


290 


THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 


and dropped upon her knees at his feet. His 
hands were covered by soft, warm little palms as 
he looked dazedly down at the humble, dusky head. 

“Steve! Steve!” she breathed. “You dear, 
blind, blessed man! I was madly jealous of her 
—Carlotta. So I said I didn’t believe. I—I 
wanted to hurt you as much as sight of her, close 
to you, had hurt me. Morg told me everything 
to-night. The President had told us much before. 
I—oh, I’m bold and brazen, but I don’t seem to 
care. Happiness is too all-important to let it slip. 
Steve!”—the voice was muffled, because her face 
was covered now by her hands—“are you going 
to make me do all the love-making?” 

The tremendous upheaval of neatly-piled cloth¬ 
ing carried all to the floor. Moments passed, then 
Estelle raised her flushed face from his shoulder 
and smiled at him, tenderly, and yet within her 
eyes that sex-old wonderment of woman, consid¬ 
ering the mysterious forces which have, all un¬ 
seen, wrought her great moment. 

“Dear Apacaz!” she said. “I’ll always love 
it. Think, Steve! Six months ago you stood 
way down there in the south, while I was in the 
States. Neither of us was thinking of coming 


“MAN PROPOSES, BUT-” 291 

here. Then we moved, and onr feet fell into the 
road to to-night! ’ ’ 

Steve’s mind seemed to click, and up sprang the 
picture of the big Indian packer he had met upon 
a hilltop—the cargadore from Menendez’ estate 
of Matagordo. He smiled, too, with wonderment. 

“ 4 In Flores we have a saying that all trails 
lead to Apacaz,’ ” he quoted, and drew her close 
against him. 

The door creaked. Morg’s beaming face— 
trained rigidly upon a distant corner of the room 
—was framed in the aperture. 

“Say, Steve,*’ he drawled, “I know that 
chap’rons are s’posed to be patient an* long- 
sufferin’ an* all that; I don’t aim to rush you 
none. But Mr. Mays is busy packin’ their stuff 
so’s to get it off to San Pedro to-night, an’ he 
needs Miss Estelle’s help, he says. Furthermore 
an’ also, he says that if we—meanin’ you an’ me 
—want to make the next steamer for Galveston 
with him an’ Miss Estelle, we better be a-packin’. 
Think it over, will you ? ’ ’ 

The door closed, and Morg’s footsteps sounded, 
diminuendo . Presently, from the other end of 
the balcony, the railing creaked beneath his 


292 THE TRAIL TO APACAZ 

weight. His voice rose plaintively. He was 
singing, putting to that ancient melody, “I Want 
to he in Kansas when the Sunflowers Bloom,” 
new words, very evidently improvised for the 
occasion: 

Oh! I want to be in Texas when the oil-wells spout! 


TRAIL ? S END 
















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